The Lark
by stress
Summary: COMPLETE -- Finding the Sparrow was turning out to be much harder than David Jacobs thought it would be.
1. In Which a Lark is in Captive

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

She heard footsteps approaching—quick footsteps, light footsteps, the sort that seemed to suggest that, whoever it was, someone was dancing down the stairs.

Her stomach turned at the sound and she wondered bitterly who was visiting her in this dark, dank prison she'd been thrust into. She had been alone for awhile now, although the carefree footsteps informed her that, to her chagrin, that would not be the case any longer. She actually preferred the solitude. It was easier to pound the dirt and cry out in frustration without anyone else there to see.

Not that she needed someone to stand guard over her. In the last few hours, ever since she'd been caught leaving her family's apartment and unceremoniously escorted across town to this strange and awful place, she had made quick work of her surroundings. There was nowhere to hide in the cold, musty cellar and no way to escape except for the single staircase on the opposite side of the room.

She didn't need a guard but she was entirely sure that there was one standing at the top of those stairs.

The cellar was small and cramped with only a single half-spent candle to shed any sort of illumination on it. Up top, there were a pair of windows coated with enough dirt and grime that it was nearly impossible for anyone to peer in and see her huddled helplessly in the corner. She'd already cut the tips of her fingers trying to climb the brick wall but it was no use—if the windows provided any hope for escape, the cellar had failed to provide anything to help her reach them.

In all, she'd spent much of her time staring at her bleak surroundings. Almost right away, she'd been reminded of the cellar of the World building. She'd visited it once, during the newsies strike last summer, when Jack Kelly had been occupying it. But at least Joseph Pulitzer kept a cot and various odds and ends in his cellar—this place was absolutely bare.

"Sarah? Where are you hiding, my dear?"

Her visitor stood on the bottommost step as he called out to her, his voice lighthearted and cheery. He blocked the candlelight with his body, and the flame's reach gave him quite the glow as it acted almost as an undeserving halo. But he didn't need that solitary candle to find her, nor did he expect her to answer his calls. In his hand, the Sparrow held a blazing oil lamp. He lifted it up high and, immediately, he spied her in the corner.

"Ah, there you are."

No doubt about it. It was him again. She had to work to fight back the rising bile in her throat. Just the sight of him made her sick to her stomach; his voice, cocky and sure, was even worse.

And it wasn't as if he was unpleasant to look at, not like the tramps and vagrants she spotted on some of the less favorable corners. Even now, with the lamplight lighting up his features, she was hard-pressed to deny that he was handsome. With his devilishly angelic smile, curly blond hair and knowing dark eyes, he was good looking enough in his own way. But his actions and his attitude were nothing sort of repulsive, so she had to turn her face away.

Using the guiding light of his lamp, he crossed the gap between them in no time. He set the lamp down beside her so that she could have the benefit of the light as well—then again, Sarah thought ruefully, it was probably so he could get a better look at her. It was much darker now than it had been when he met her earlier; the blaze of the oil lamp was definitely needed as night fell.

If it even was night. Without the luxury of a watch, she'd lost all sense of time. Only the setting sun and the accompanying blackness revealed how much time had passed since she'd left home.

What she wouldn't have given just then to be home.

He'd known her all too well. She'd run at the first sign—his Sparrow sign, actually—and he, counting on her cowardice, had gone after her. The chase ended before it had truly begun and he'd won; but, though he won, Sarah was not about to let him gloat.

Still wearing a satisfied smile, entirely aware of her stubborn streak, the Sparrow loomed over her. He extended his hand but, of course, she refused it. If he wanted her on her feet, she would remain on the dust-covered floor, her legs tucked under her dirty skirt, forever.

He barely raised an eyebrow. Cocking his head towards her, nodding briefly as if conceding a point to a worthy opponent, he hiked up his worn, patched and holey pants and squatted so that they were almost eye to eye.

It took everything she had, and then some, not to lean forward and shove him squarely in his chest.

"Sarah, Sarah, Sarah… how is my lovely little lark?"

She frowned, not even bothering to fake a grin. There was no reason to fear the Sparrow any further—what else could he do to her beside throw her in a cell and take away her freedom?

Though she'd sworn to herself earlier that she wouldn't even give him the benefit of acknowledging his existence, she couldn't help it. The words, snappish and quick, were out before she knew it. "In a cage."

He showed no remorse. In fact, he seemed amused at her reaction. "Well, of course. You must remain a lark in captive until you've agreed to be mine," he told her, his smile widening. "I'm only doing what's best for you."

In the most unladylike fashion possible, Sarah snorted. She was glad her poor mother wasn't anywhere around to hear it. "And how is this best for me?"

"A lark is too precious to fly free."

"I'm not a lark, you stupid ape! I'm just a girl and I want to go home!"

Her voice broke on that last word; her cry came out more like a sob than a demand. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes and she hurriedly blinked them away. What use was there in crying? The Sparrow was heartless, accustomed to control. Emotion wouldn't set her free; if anything, it would probably make her appear all the more delicate. Fragile.

A lark, he called her—but she would never agree to be his pet.

Very few had ever refused the Sparrow something he desired and, as such, it was unthinkable to him that he would not get his way. If Sarah rebelled against him now, it was only because she didn't understand her own worth. Beauty, he believed, ought to be tamed, and free spirits captured and trained until they willfully returned to their perch.

He saw the tears she so desperately tried to hide but ignored them. "Home? This is your home now, Sarah."

Her brown eyes opened wide and he could see the fear reflected in the light. Her lips began to tremble and, when she spoke, so did her voice. "You don't honestly expect to keep me here forever, do you?"

"That depends."

"Depends? On what?"

"On how long you plan on fighting against me."

His words hung in the heavy air. She didn't know what to say in response; she wasn't even sure if she could anything at all without calling him a few names that she had picked up from Spot's boys.

The Sparrow, reveling in the silence he caused, leaned in closer to her, chuckling when he saw the sudden realization on her face that she couldn't jerk her head any further away. He ran his tongue carefully along the edge of his slightly elongated canine; his teeth were bared in a smile that seemed more predatory than anything.

Sarah gulped.

The Sparrow grinned.

And a second set of footsteps—louder than the Sparrow's had been, and more frantic—thundered through the dank cellar, interrupting what might have been and probably wouldn't.

"Alf—I mean, Boss. Ya here?"

Sighing under his breath, closing his eyes against the brusque female voice, he slowly leaned back and away from Sarah. Almost begrudgingly, he rose to a standing position before wheeling around just in time to face another girl.

Curious against her better judgment—and admittedly jealous that this girl had her freedom—Sarah glanced up at the newcomer. She was a very tall girl with thin features that were set and determined. Her blouse was faded in the lamplight and her dusty skirt almost as patched as the Sparrow's pants. In the glow of the oil lamp, Sarah saw the girl's eyes dart to and fro; however, she noticed, she was very careful not to look at Sarah.

She had long, light brown hair that was plaited and resting over one of his shoulders. Anxious fingers fiddled with the end as she looked down on the Sparrow.

With his back to her, Sarah couldn't tell if he was pleased to see this other girl or not. His words offered her no insight as he said, "Why, Pidge. I wasn't expecting you so early."

"I know, but he's here. I've brought," she paused, before finally glancing over at Sarah and saying, "the boy here."

Sarah didn't know the Sparrow well enough to judge his mood but he suddenly sounded a lot more serious. The cheeriness was gone. "What does he know?"

"Not much, really, but that don't mean he ain't willin' to try. When I found him, he'd already followed her clue all the way to Madison Avenue."

In an attempt to stifle her cry of utter disappointment and surprise, Sarah had to bite her tongue. As the tangy rusty taste of warm blood dribbled in her mouth, her thoughts were already on Jack. He'd received her note, that was good, but what was he doing in Midtown?

The signal had been Spot's idea—when she heard from the Sparrow, it was up to Sarah to alert either him or Jack. The written address of the great St. Patrick's Cathedral served as a sign to the two Irish Catholic boys that it was time to pray; it was supposed to send one to the other, either Jack to Brooklyn or Spot to Manhattan. It would be foolish, Jack told her a few weeks ago when the threat of the Sparrow began, for one of them to attempt to go after the elusive king of the streets. The two of them, with the combined might and ingenuity of the two boroughs, might stand a chance.

The address and the sign of the Sparrow were supposed to be a clue for Jack to head off to Brooklyn and get Spot. Why, then, had he actually gone off to Madison Avenue?

Her heart beating double-time in her chest, the hope of help arriving quickly vanishing, Sarah returned her attention to the conversation going on around her. She was just in time to hear the Sparrow say "—who do you think gave him the way?"

The girl huffed. "I don't understand why you've got me tailin' this kid if you've already got it in ya to help him."

"You wouldn't, Pidge."

"My name ain't Pidge."

Though the girl muttered her response so low that Sarah barely made it out, there was no denying the resounding slapping noise or the loud thud as the force of the Sparrow's smack sent the girl tumbling down to the floor.

Upon landing, her right hand breaking her fall, her left already rubbing the obviously sore cheek that had been struck, not-Pidge didn't say another word. She let her piercing glare do the talking for her.

But the Sparrow wasn't listening.

He shook his hand once before gesturing at Sarah behind him. He didn't have to turn around to know she was quailing behind him; in that moment, as the girl fell, Sarah's fear came rushing back. As, of course, was his intent.

"Now that my guest has arrived," the Sparrow began, addressing both girls in a different sort of voice. It was slower, more commanding and deliberate. It was almost as if he was choosing each and every word carefully before he said them, "I should go upstairs and greet him." He turned on the not-Pidge. "Do you think you could stay down here and keep my lark company?"

There was a lot that he was not explicitly saying—first and foremost, that she had no choice. No one in their right mind would assume that the Sparrow was actually asking for her help, despite the kind tone he was using.

It was all a front, a show, for the raggedy girl in the corner.

And she was center stage.

"Sure thing, Alf—Boss."

"Good." He bent down swiftly, using his right hand to push to oil lamp closer to Sarah; it wouldn't do if, while he was occupied, she caught a chill. Before pulling away, he took the opportunity to run the edge of his finger along the length of her cheek. Her head already pressed up against the brick wall, she couldn't move away. However, if looks could kill… "Take care, my Sarah."

Too repulsed by his sudden and unwanted contact, she just kept her dark eyes on the dancing flame of the oil lamp.

The Sparrow laughed confidently as he navigated his way over to the staircase. Choosing to leave the slim candle behind for extra light, he started up the stairs, feeling his way as he went. He didn't go straight up, though; he paused after he'd taken only three or four steps. "Pidge?"

She knew better this time than to talk back. As it was, she would already have one hell of a bruise on her cheek tomorrow. "Yeah?"

"Make sure you don't go telling our new friends things they don't need to know, alright?" Then, before she could response to this teasing tone, he added, "After all, it's what you do."

Teller waited until he'd ascended the last step of the Midtown Lodging House's cellar before she let loose with a curse that would have brought a blush to even Spot Conlon's cheeks.

Sarah liked her already.

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, here we go. Like last time, the first chapter is a moment in time during Sarah's personal -- and not too pleasant -- adventure. After that, the story will resume in a first person POV with our poor narrator. Who, unfortunately for him, has no idea what is really going on._

_I hope you guys like this beginning. I tried to tie it back to _The Sparrow_, answering some questions about who some people are and where their loyalties lie. But don't take things at face value -- you never know what's going to happen! Especially with the Sparrow involved ;)_

_-- stress, 10.12.08_


	2. In Which a Bed or Two is Empty

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

With a sudden start and a stretch, I woke up with the sun.

It was Sunday morning, the sun was already dawning and I was awake—in fact, I was the _only_ one awake in the apartment.

Papa wasn't heading off to the factory and Mama wouldn't start breakfast for another hour at least. From across the room I could hear a couple of wheezes and snuffles that told me that Les was still sound asleep. I wasn't all that surprised about that. He'd been up late, badgering me with questions about just where I'd gone Friday afternoon. Even after I explained everything—rather, tried my best to explain without telling my parents or my brother the absolute truth—he still wouldn't accept that I'd had a very long day and that I was exhausted. I'd wanted nothing more last night than to get some rest; now, it was Les who was resting.

I didn't even have to look to know that Sarah's bed was empty.

Sighing, I didn't climb out of my small cot immediately. Though only one night had passed since I'd slept in it last, it felt… different. The mattress felt a little too lumpy to me, my pillow too flat. My blanket, though, it smelled like home—yet, I have to admit, even that was wrong. Home just wasn't home without all of the Jacobs there.

Not for the first time since I came back, I felt guilty that I returned without Sarah. A quick lie, courtesy of Jack, had calmed Mama down. She was only too willing to believe that Sarah had gone to tend to a very sick (and entirely made-up) friend; the fact that she'd never heard of this friend before didn't even occur to her. She even believed me when I told her that, after making sure that Sarah would be spending the next few days in a respectable part of town, I'd stayed the night with Jack and the others on Duane Street.

If I was being honest with myself, I'm not sure she actually _did_ believe me—I think, more than anything, she_ wanted _to believe me. But I knew that I was lying to her. I hadn't spent the night on Duane Street; I boarded at the Midtown Lodging House. And Sarah… she wasn't staying with a conveniently ill friend. I knew the truth.

The Sparrow had my sister.

He had her, and I was going to do everything I could to get her back.

Using the early morning sunlight to catch a glance at my pocket watch I saw that I was actually running behind. If I wanted to get out and be on my way before Mama had a chance to ask me any more questions, I needed to get up now. I'm nowhere near as good a liar as Jack Kelly and there was a good chance that the story I told my parents last night wouldn't stand up this morning.

As quietly as I could I slipped out of my bed. I'd made sure to sleep in fresh trousers so that I wouldn't have to waste any time. Feeling clever at my foresight, I reached for my shoes and quickly pulled them on. However, I must have been either too tired or extremely anxious because it took me much longer to tie the thin, frayed laces than normal.

Then again, it just might have been in wary anticipation of the pain I felt when I closed my shoes tight. The blisters I got from walking to Midtown, across the bridge to Brooklyn, and then back to the Lower East Side seemed to grow even larger as I slept. I had half a mind, as I waited for the dull, throbbing pain to subside, to go and swap my shoes for a pair of Papa's.

I didn't, though. Just in case, I didn't want to risk waking Mama or Papa up. Besides, I'd get used to walking again soon enough. I mean, the pain would go away eventually, right?

After shrugging on a pale blue shirt and doing up the buttons proper I made sure to check my pockets once before leaving. Learning from my mistakes I'd borrowed from my meager savings, stashing a handful of coins into my front pocket before I fell asleep; I wasn't going to have to ask anyone for a nickel today. My tarnished pocket watch was clipped and secured, and I'd grabbed and stowed one of my caps in my back pocket.

I was ready.

There was no time really for breakfast but that was all right; surprisingly enough, I wasn't all that hungry. All this lying and worrying and wondering were making me nervous. Not to mention, I had one of Mama's hearty and heavy meals weighing my stomach down. I'd be lucky if I felt hungry again any time soon.

I tiptoed across the main room, taking light and careful steps as I headed towards the door. Last night, when I planned my exit early this morning, I'd almost decided on leaving through the window and climbing down the fire escape.

Now, though, I realized how foolish and daring and quite dumb that would be. It was bad enough that some goon named after a bird had taken it upon himself to nab Sarah and that I was going off in search of them both. I didn't have to make it anymore dangerous by escaping through the back window when a perfectly good door would work just as well.

The door squeaked as I turned the handle but thankfully the sound wasn't anywhere loud enough to wake anyone up. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Les turn over in his bed. His eyes remained closed so, with a sigh of relief, I hurriedly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

I pulled the door shut behind me. It wasn't a very good door; it had the habit of popping open randomly when it wasn't locked. I made sure it would hold, giving the handle one extra jerk, before turning around and going down the steps.

I didn't start running until I'd already gone down one flight.

It hadn't taken me long to get ready and leave the apartment. The sun was still rising, a faint colorful glow washing over the dreary city as I left my building. It was definitely a more promising morning, I thought. There wasn't a cloud in the sky today.

"David! Over here!"

At the sound of my name I lowered my gaze from above, automatically turning to my right.

It was still early but not so early that I beat Teller to the corner street just past my apartment building.

She was a far cry from how she looked yesterday. Cleaner, maybe. Happier, definitely. There was no dust on her new blouse or her patched navy skirt, and her hair—braided, as was her custom—was in place. The circles and dark lines under her stormy blue eyes had faded somewhat since I saw her last night. It seemed like she'd gotten a lot more rest Saturday night than she did on Friday.

As I hurried toward her, meeting her next to a horse cart, I saw that she'd even gone so far as to apply some powder to her cheeks, hiding the large blemish on her left side. The bruise had darkened a bit but it was hard to tell underneath the powder. A fresh coat of vivid red lip paints made her welcoming grin all the more… dazzling, I might say.

Her appearance was so different today than the way she looked yesterday that, if it wasn't for the fact that she'd called out to me, I wasn't too sure I would've recognized her.

She gave a wave when she saw me approaching before ducking off to the side of the cart.

I joined her, gracious that she knew enough about me—or, perhaps, the plan—that I couldn't afford to be found out by my parents. I already wasn't looking forward to explaining why I snuck out without so much a word to them this morning.

"Good morning, Teller," I greeted, trying my best not to stare too much at her. She cleaned up pretty well, even if she did look a bit hoity now.

"Mornin'." She looked amused which made me think that I hadn't done that well of a job hiding how impressed I was with her fresh appearance. Her eyebrow arched. "Sleep well?"

Her eyes roved over me, taking in my crumpled trousers and my untucked shirt before lingering on my hair. I hadn't done anything to it before stepping out and I was certain it was a curly mess. Trying to be smooth, I reached behind me and grabbed my cap. I jammed it on my head. Teller snickered; I pretended not to hear her. "Well enough," I answered. "You?"

"Like a baby."

She paused then and I wondered if it would be too rude, or too forward, to ask her what she did after leaving me, Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon outside of the Duane Street Lodging House. I know she promised—or threatened, depending on who you asked—to help us find Sarah but I wasn't sure if she meant straight away. It was a good sign that she showed up at my building to meet me like she said she would but I still wasn't comfortable with the idea of questioning her about her doings.

As it turned out, though, I didn't have to.

"So, I checked up on a coupla leads last night. Lookin' for the Sparrow, I mean."

"And?" I said, probably a little too urgently when it seemed like she wasn't going to continue anytime soon.

She shrugged. "Nothin' out there yet, Dave. One girl I talked to, Peg, she said she'd heard the Sparrow's found himself a new chickadee. Another mentioned he was roostin' somewhere nearby. He was last in Queens but ya never know. He could be in Manhattan now."

"So he might've been perfectly positioned to snatch Sarah and hide her, huh?"

"That's what it looks like to me." Teller frowned. "I'm sorry, Dave."

Shaking my head, I brushed aside her absent apologies. They didn't really mean much now; her help was more appreciated. "Anything else?"

"Not really. I told you before, the Sparrow's a very tricky character. No one really knows him and he's got all these spies. If anything, I can't help but think he'll hear about us lookin' for him before we even come close to findin' him. Then, when we do find him, it'll be because he wanted us to." Her frown deepened and she huffed before muttering, "I can't stand him sometimes."

There was undeniable passion in her voice and I had no doubt that she was telling the truth. Still, it definitely rubbed me the wrong way. It was almost as if I could hear Spot's accusing voice in my head: _Why don't you tell him, Teller? Tell Mouth you ain't nothin' but a two-bit lousy spy who reports back to the Sparrow! _

I bit my lip, biding my time and saying nothing. There was no doubt that she disliked the Sparrow—but did that mean that she still worked for him? Still acted as one of his spies? Could she be trusted?

I didn't know, and I didn't think there was anyway I could find out. Not yet, anyway. Knowing Teller—at least, I thought I kind of knew her—there was no way that I'd get the truth out of her any time before she wanted me to have it. Until then, I'd have to be satisfied with accepting her word for it and just being grateful that she was willing to help me go up against the Sparrow.

Nodding my head, I hoped that Teller was wrong. I—_we_—only had one thing on our side and that was the element of surprise. I'd been a fool when I thought the best way was for the Sparrow to know that I was looking for him. Now, though, I realized that it would far better if I found him when he wasn't expecting it.

"Alright," I said, still nodding. Putting my hands in my pockets, I glanced over my shoulder—just in case—before adding, "Thank you, Teller."

"It's no problem. I told ya I was gonna help ya."

I had to work to fight back a smile. It was nice to hear her say that again. However, that didn't mean that any of the information she had was really useful. If I was being honest with myself, I'd been expecting something more from her. "Well, what do we do now?"

If Teller thought it was strange for me to turn to her for all the answers, she didn't say. Instead, with a newly resumed grin, she started to move forward. She took a few steps before turning behind her and gesturing for me to follow her. Feeling a bit stupid, I did. I could already feel my blisters beginning to heat up and throb within the tightness of my too-small shoes.

She didn't answer me until we'd slyly made it past my building. Only then, when we were crossing over to the next street, did she say, "I think it's time we go check in with Conlon and Kelly."

I just hoped they'd gotten more information than Teller had.

* * *

Author's Note: _And there we are, starting the rest of the story. Just like in _The Sparrow_, this story will be in David's POV from this point on. It takes place the morning after the events of Part One; the first chapter, though, was set some time during the middle of Part One (just in case it was a little confusing -- which it was kind of, maybe, sort of meant to be... and, yes, Alfie _is _the Sparrow!)_

_Anywho, I hope you guys like this chapter. It really is nice to get back to Teller and David's story ;)_

_-- stress, 10.25.08_


	3. In Which Fate Marks the Cards

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

Whether the positioning was done so on purpose or not, I wasn't sure, but between Teller's quickened pace and my slight hobbling as I got used to walking again, the gap between us widened as we made our way towards Duane Street. At least two other people could fit between us and, as we navigated our way through the busy Sunday streets, they usually did. I didn't get worried, though; as long as Teller's braid was in my line of view, swaying hypnotically back and forth as she hurried forward, I was sure that she wasn't trying to lose me.

Well, not yet, at least.

I couldn't exactly put my finger on it but there was something… something about her that was different—and it wasn't just her appearance. She seemed distant, and was far more hesitant than I'd seen her act in the past two days. She was walking in front of me and, from my post a handful of steps behind her, I watched as she glanced over her shoulders a few times. At first I thought she was checking to make sure that I was still there but our eyes never met. She was looking for someone else.

My suspicions had been awoken yesterday afternoon when Spot told me that Teller had a history of working with—or for, I wasn't really all that clear on the status of their relationship, or anyone's for that matter—the Sparrow. She didn't deny it, but she didn't explain herself, either. She waited until the subject had been dropped and the matter forgotten before she offered her help. But I hadn't forgotten, and, at the uncertainty I knew when I thought of the two of them together—one my ally, one my foe—I felt my hands ball up into fists at my side.

This was all too familiar for me.

Last summer, when I first took to selling papers to earn money for my family, I'd met Jack Kelly and the two of us, plus Les, became both business partners and pals. Then the newsboy strike in July had happened and our friendship strengthened as we battled Joseph Pulitzer and the other newspaper giants over a ten cent hike in price.

I can still remember to this day how I felt when Jack, whatever his reasons, betrayed the newsies—betrayed me—by turning scab and crossing lines to work for Pulitzer, even if his turncoat ways did not last. He eventually returned to his senses, and returned to the newsies. But, still, I had never felt so deserted before. I had trusted him, believed in him, and he left us all for the lure of money. When he came back, the others accepted him immediately… but I didn't. Even today, even after Jack helped us win, even after he turned down a free ride to Santa Fe to stay in Manhattan, I sometimes wondered what it would take next for him to leave.

The niggling sense of uncertainty never left me. Tucked neatly behind a friendly smile and a pair of innocent blue eyes, there were times when I might look at Jack Kelly and wonder if he was plotting another escape.

Just then, as I stared at Teller's slim back, I had that same feeling. I couldn't trust her, and I foolishly think that I might have started to prior to our meeting with Jack and Spot on the docks. It was a mistake—I'll blame it on a lack of food and not enough sleep—to assume she wasn't helping me out for reasons of her own. Now, though she told me she wanted to help me, I had the hunch that she was doing this more to hurt the Sparrow than to help a boy she'd only met a few days ago.

At least it was something. I could live with that.

I just really hoped that that was right. I don't know what I would do if, in the end, Teller was not worthy of some of the trust I'd placed in her. True, she'd never said that she knew the Sparrow, but, apart from that, she'd done nothing to show me that she wasn't worthy of the small amount of trust I had given her. Not like Jack had.

_Jack…_

For a moment the image of Jack's uncharacteristically concerned face flashed before my eyes. It was rare to see him without a smirk or a cocky grin splitting his lips; the frown and the furrowed brow that he'd been wearing the last time I saw him were weighing on my mind. He was guilty, that much was clear. He'd failed Sarah by letting the Sparrow get his claws on her in the first place and he knew it. I knew it, too. And I had no doubts that, this time, he wasn't going to try to flee without attempting to solve this problem.

I could trust him to stay right now.

I picked up my pace when I saw that my brooding and my thoughts of the past had caused the space between me and Teller to grow even larger. There was a rather tall gentleman with a sturdy stovepipe hat resting on his head walking before me, blocking the path. A lovely young woman was holding onto his arm and, with the two of them in front of me, it was hard for me to pick Teller out of the congested crowd.

Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to compare her to Jack, even in my mind. After all, I had spent most of yesterday assuring myself that there was no tie that kept the two of them together…

"Dave! Where are you goin'?"

Lost in my own thoughts, I gave a start when I heard Teller's voice come from behind me. With a peeved yet mildly amused expression on her face, she shot her hand out and grabbed the sleeve of my shirt. Once she'd taken hold, she yanked me through the crowd, scurrying us past one woman who looked scandalized at Teller's forward behavior, and pulled me so hard that I ended up standing right next to her.

I couldn't help it. This close I took the opportunity to take a deep breath and, I can't even explain why, _smell_ her. My nerviness was rewarded. She even smelled pretty today.

Teller moved her head back and she eyed me with distrust. There was a good chance she might have noticed the strange way that, like an animal, I had breathed her scent in. Feeling embarrassed, and unwilling to explain my inexplicable action to her, I grinned shakily and pulled my hat down so that it was almost covering my eyes.

She wasn't buying the innocent act. "Did you just… _sniff _me?"

I could actually feel my cheeks heating up and turning red at her incredulous question. I turned my head away from her. "Huh? What? No," I lied. "Why?"

"I did wash up, you know."

"I… I can tell."

Her eyebrow arched and she smiled widely, her white teeth appearing sneakily between her bright red lips. "Soap and everything, too."

"That's nice," I mumbled before adding, "you look… you look nice, Teller."

I wondered if I had gone too far with that last comment. But, when I dared to look back up at her, glancing up from underneath the brim of my cap, I saw that her smile had lost its amused edge. She looked softer, and there was something written in her eyes that I couldn't read.

Before I had the chance to study her features even further, Teller's grip on my sleeve tightened and she gave another pull. "Come on, Dave," she said, her voice light. I felt relieved that she didn't sound upset by my comment. "Let's go."

We didn't continue going straight on the path we'd been walking down; following Teller's lead, we cut through an alleyway before emerging out on another side street. It wasn't as crowded as the road we were already on and, without the Sunday hustle and bustle, it was easy to see where we were going. Teller was heading straight towards the back entrance of the Duane Street Lodging House.

She let go of my arm as soon as we made it to the back stoop. Stopping suddenly, she jerked her head at the open doorway. It took me a moment to realize what she was implying. For some reason or another, she obviously wanted me to walk in ahead of her.

Shrugging my shoulders, I crossed the threshold. It was dark inside and eerily quiet. All of the newsboys were out doing what they do—hawking headlines and selling newspapers to the people milling out on the streets. I just hoped that Jack and Spot held true to their word and were waiting for us.

There was a hallway that led from the back entrance to the front lobby. Feeling a lot less confident than my assured expression told others, I led the way to the desk that stood at the foot of the stairs. It was Kloppman's desk and, sure enough, the old white-haired man was standing at his post, currently poring over the ledger that was placed in front of him.

This experience, me walking into a dark lodging house, was also very familiar—but for an entirely different reason. And I remembered when I had experienced this before: Friday night, at the Midtown Lodging House. I must say, it was so much nicer finding Kloppman at the desk rather than that vicious MacCauley who manned the desk in Midtown.

I exhaled in relief, a sound I couldn't swallow, when I spied Kloppman before me. I hadn't thought the noise was that loud but he heard it. I wasn't all that surprised, really; a lifetime watching over unruly boys, keeping them in line and out trouble, had lent Kloppman the advanced hearing of an animal.

Pushing his spectacles up his nose, he squinted through the darkness over at us. His wrinkled face broke into a small grin when he recognized me. "Ah, Davey. How good it is to see you, boy."

Smiling warmly in return, I said, "You too, Kloppman. Is, uh, is Jack here?"

"Cowboy? Yup, he and some of the other fellas are still up in the bunkroom. Said they weren't pushing the papes today, though bless me if I know why. Also said that, if I happen to see you, just to send you on up. Your lady friend, too." Through the mild darkness, Kloppman searched out Teller and gave her a small salute. "Ma'am."

Teller didn't say anything but I felt her finger as she prodded me in the small of my back.

Taking that as my cue, I nodded in gratitude. "Thank you, Kloppman. We'll just—we'll just be going now. Right, Teller?"

I dared a glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She was wearing the most bemused expression. "Alright, then."

"I'll be down here, going over the numbers if you need me."

She poked me again and, more in an effort to get away from her blunt finger, I hurried up the steps. The echo of her shoes behind me let me know that she was right on my trail.

My feet were killing me but I managed to make it up the stairs and emerge into the crammed bunkroom without stumbling and falling back down. I had the funny feeling that, if I even stumbled once, Teller might pick me back up and shove me forward. No sympathy in that girl, I have to say.

Someone had opened a window wide in the bunkroom and a good amount of light spilled in. Compared to the darkness of the closed in lobby, the light startled me and I flinched as I was partially blinded.

Blinking my eyes, I heard a couple of snide laughs and chuckles. By the time I was able to get my bearings, and my eyes were accustomed to the flood of flight, I saw why the laughter seemed more raucous than I would have imagined. I had thought that there was going to be two of them up here, despite Kloppman's slip of 'the other fellas', but I was wrong. There weren't two of them up here. There were three.

Jack was standing in front of the window, his tall body a dark silhouette against the bright light. Spot was leaning against the base of one of the bunks that was closest to Jack. And there, sitting on the bottom bed of that bunk, was Racetrack. He had a pack of worn cards in his left hand and an old, nicked knife in his right. I shook my head; leave it to Racetrack Higgins to mark a deck in mixed company.

Once their laughter had subsided, and me and Teller had walked over to where they were standing, Race set his instruments down. Climbing down off of the bunk, he ran one of his hands along the lengths of his slicked down, greasy black hair. Crooked teeth were revealed as he smiled cockily at Teller. "My, my, my… look what we have here. A lady in the bunkroom, hmm. I'd never woulda thought I'd seen it. Odds were against it, I'd say."

Spot took his chance to get in his first shot at Teller. "Don't get your hopes up, Race. Teller, she ain't no lady."

She'd snuck up behind me. I could actually feel the heat of her breath on my ear as she shot back, "Hiya, Spot. I missed you, too."

Jack sighed then, and I had to agree with him. This was not the way that I had thought things would begin this morning.

* * *

Author's Note: _I wasn't planning on updating any of my stories during November --_ go, go Nanowrimo!_ -- but, for some reason, I found the strange urge to continue with the beginning of Teller and David's story. I have a great couple of scenes coming up between them and the other characters (some canon and some created) that they'll meet. I have a whole arsenal of interesting OCs coming up, and I hope you're liking this story so far._

_I do want to thank everyone who has read this so far, and especially to those who have offered me a few words on what they thought. You guys are amazing!_

_-- stress, 11.11.08_


	4. In Which Race is Key, and Spot is Testy

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

Spot snorted to himself, straightening up from his post. He had been leaning against the bunk that Racetrack had just vacated, but now he chose to stand up, holding himself up to his full height. His hat was slung low, covering his dirty blond hair and his strangely colored eyes, but I could almost feel the heat of his stare as his head turned to look past me, searching out the haughty face I knew Teller had to be making. I didn't even have to turn around to know that she would be receiving his fierce glare with a smirk to rival even his.

Well, maybe not quite. But it would be infuriating to Spot nonetheless. I had to bite the inside of my cheek in order to keep my own amused grin back. The last thing I needed was for Spot to spy it and turn on me instead.

He didn't. All of his attention was on Teller. "Wish I could say the same, but you ain't been gone long enough. So why don't you just go already?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, I would."

Spot stepped forward and suddenly I was stuck right between the two of them. I suspected that Teller stayed behind me on purpose. Not because she was afraid of Spot, of course, but to see just what I would do in this situation.

I hope I didn't disappoint.

"Spot," I said, holding my hands out in a peaceful gesture, "this has got to stop. If we're going to help my sister, we're going to have to work together." There was pleading in my voice and I'm pretty sure it was enough to hide the faint stammer that Spot's current glare was causing. "That's why we've come here, after all. I can't do it by myself. Teller said she'd help us, remember?"

Snorting in disbelief, Spot looked away from me. I know he had something to say to that—he wouldn't be Spot Conlon if he didn't—but, before he had the chance, Jack took a few steps close to where we were all standing.

He looked horrible up close. Without the sanctuary of his old cowboy hat it was easy to see that he had spent a sleepless night. His brown hair was greasier than normal, thick strands slicked down and stuck to his head. Dark circles underlined his eyes in a way that made him look sickly; the frown he wore did nothing to help his appearance.

Running the back of his ink-stained hand across his mouth before letting his arm fall back to his side, Jack lingered at the edge of our little group. That in and of itself was strange and I felt my mouth turn down in a slight frown. This wasn't like the Jack Kelly I knew at all.

"Listen, all this fightin' isn't gonna help no one do nothin'. It's like Davey said. If we want to go and get Sarah back, then we have to at least pretend to get along. Ya hear me, Spot? Teller?"

"You can count on me, Kelly," piped up Teller. Her voice sounded sweet—and entirely fake. She obviously didn't appreciate being talked down to like that but, luckily, she didn't say anything about it.

And Spot, he didn't say anything at all.

Following the silence, when no one had anything they wanted to say, Race cleared his throat and sidled over so that he was standing on the other side of Teller. I watched him as he went and I had to work hard not to make an amused face when he stopped. Teller was at least a head taller than him, towering over the short newsboy; Race barely came up to her shoulder.

Trying his best to sound sympathetic—and coming off as the smart ass he was—Race said, "Sarah was a good girl. I'll tell ya, Cowboy, I never really got what she saw in you. Nothin' meant by that, ya understand. She was just too damn good."

_Was_. Sarah had only been gone for two days and already someone was using the word 'was'. That one word, uttered so simply by Race, had the power to make my stomach tense up and tie itself into one big knot. Teller's hand, a quick sympathetic brush against the back of my arm, didn't help matters much, either.

"Yeah, but what about me, Race?"

If there was one thing I could say about Race and not feel too guilty, it was that his brain wasn't anywhere near as fast as his mouth. But even a wise guy like Racetrack Higgins had to stop and think when Spot Conlon was staring at you like that. But I had to give him credit—his wide smile barely dipped. He had a gambler's grin, all right.

"They say opposites attract, don't they? You and Sarah, Spot, yeah… that works alright." He nodded quickly. "Who wouldn't want to go around with Brooklyn, eh?"

Spot smirked and, for the first time this morning, he seemed pleased. "Exactly."

Teller rolled her eyes and, not addressing anyone in particular—though it was easy to know who she was talking to—she huffed, "Okay, great. But if we don't find Dave's sister, then it really don't matter what she thought of any of ya's, right?"

I had to agree. "Teller's got a point," I said, shrugging my shoulders apologetically. "It doesn't matter what Sarah's opinion is until we find her again. And, to find her, we have to find the Sparrow. I—we," I amended, gesturing behind me towards Teller, "don't have much to go on but I was hoping you might be able to tell me where to go looking for him."

Spot's smirk switched to an unsatisfied sneer so quickly that it was almost as if he'd never been amused. "The Sparrow's a tricky bastard. If he don't want to be found, it can take some time to find him."

"Tell us something we don't know, Conlon."

"Well you're the spy, ain't ya?" Spot shot back. "Why don't you tell us where he is?"

Jack sighed again. "Spot, ya gotta watch your temper." I had half a mind to chime in and agree with him but the set of Spot's jaw kept me silent. He continued, "Besides, we've found out enough last night to make a good start today, right? And we haven't even heard what Race has got to say yet."

I turned my head and glanced at Racetrack again. I had wondered what he was doing here—I would've thought he would be over at Sheepshead Races if he wasn't out selling—but I didn't stop to think that he might know something more about Sarah and the Sparrow then we did.

As one, all four of us turned to look at Race. Clearly enjoying being the center of attention, he puffed out his chest and grinned cheekily at us.

Spot didn't have time for Race's theatrics. "Spit it out, Race. What have ya got to say?"

Race's whole demeanor seemed to deflate. "Alright. Ya see, there's a girl I know. Meggie. You can find her down in Bottle Alley."

There was no missing the look that passed across Jack's face. He was a professional at controlling his emotions, only showing off when he was happy or amused. He barely let anyone know when he was affected negatively but that flash of a frown was all it took. I caught it and raised an eyebrow. "Something about Bottle Alley you don't like, Jack?"

"You could say that again."

Jack's frown transformed into a scowl as he leaned over and smacked Racetrack square in the chest. "Shut it, Race."

I had only heard about the Bottle Alley Home for Girls over in Bottle Alley in passing. There were a handful of girls who braved the distribution centers and sold newspapers, and a lot more who earned their wages whether sewing or working in factories. Many of them were orphans and runaways, like the boys who lived in the Newsboys' Lodging House, and they needed a place to stay. Bottle Alley was that place—but I had never met any of the girls myself.

Jack, on the other hand, must have. And, if it wasn't for my worry for Sarah and how much I wanted to know what Race was getting it, I might have asked Jack about that.

I think I was the only one who was even vaguely interested in that short exhange because neither Spot nor Teller asked about it, either. Instead, Spot barked, "What about this girl?"

Just in case, Race took a step back, moving out of the reach of Jack's arm. He didn't have to worry, though; shaking his head shortly, Jack turned his back on us and moved over to the window again.

"Meggie's an old pal of mine," he explained, "but she knows more about the Sparrow than any of us."

"How's that?"

"Simple," he answered Teller. "She used to run with his crowd. But she can't stand him now. I'm sure she'll be glad to tell you guys anything she can."

I felt the small bubble of hope that had blossomed when Jack said Race had information die.

"So that's it?" I asked? "That's the plan? We're going to go to a girls' home and hope that one of the lodgers there can tell us a little bit more about the Sparrow?" I could hear the disbelief and the ill-disguised whine in my voice but I didn't care. I had expected a little something more from the crooked minds of Jack, Race and Spot.

Spot scowled, his hands absently run up and down the lengths of his cane. It was a nervous gesture, I thought; he seemed to always have to have something to do with his hands lately. "What, you got a better plan, Mouth?"

"Me? I… no, but—"

"Exactly," he said triumphantly. He was tapping the sole of his boot against the floor, flicking one of his suspender straps with his pointer finger. The cane seemed momentarily forgotten. "If Bottle Alley's what we got, then that's where we go."

Race was shaking his head. "No, that's where you go. I got better things to do than to start tanglin' with the Sparrow."

It was a relief for Spot's heated glare to finally be on someone else. I heard Teller make some sort of a sound—I couldn't tell if it was a sigh of relief or maybe a stifled snort—and I figured she felt the same way. Spot Conlon's temper was legendary. He seemed even angrier than me that my sister was in trouble.

"What did you say, Higgins?"

Spot was as tough as they come but Race… he relied more on his quick wit and his smart mouth than his fists. Spot was small for his size but wiry; Race was a short Irish kid whose mouth was much faster than his legs were. I don't think he was really _afraid _of Spot, but he knew as well as the rest of us that Sarah's being missing had made Spot a ticking time bomb. One wrong move, one wrong word and the Brooklyn leader was going to blow.

He gave a little chuckle, moving his hands in front of him carefully as he said, "Now, don't be like that, Spot. I told you I'd help ya, and I did. Didn't I, Cowboy?"

I'd almost forgotten about Jack. He hadn't said much since I arrived and, in fact, he had actually moved away from where the rest of us were standing in the center of the bunkroom. He was back at the window, one hand bracing the frame as he stared out into the busy street.

At the sound of his nickname he turned around, a small frown on his face. "Only 'cause I gave you back some of the nickels I'd bummed off of ya."

Racetrack didn't even look ashamed. "Yeah, but I did tell ya what I knew. You need to know more about this guy? Ask for Meggie. It ain't like _she_'ll even be there."

That was the second time that someone had made mention to a second girl down at the Bottle Alley Home. And, like before, Jack's face seemed to tighten as Race's careless—or not so careless, considering it was Race, after all—reference to her. I still wondered who they were talking about… but Spot, eager to steer the conversation back towards him, jumped in before I could get the chance to ask Jack.

"Race, you've always been a good guy. I know that, Cowboy knows that… hell, even Mouth remembers the way you held your own during the strike. You gonna let a silly old bird stop you from helpin' out a fellow newsie?"

I have to admit, I was impressed by Spot's words. They seemed like something I might have come up with, or something that Jack could have said. Spot, I knew, had a way with twisting words that was all his own. I don't think that there was anyway Race could possibly refuse now.

Not that he didn't want to, of course. You could tell from the way his dark eyes dropped and his mouth opened wordlessly that Race wanted nothing more than to tell Spot that that was exactly what was going to happen. But he didn't. Instead, he shrugged his shoulder and, when he lifted his head, he cracked a crooked grin. "Alright, alright, but I'll remember this. Next time I want some company down at the track, you better be in."

"Sure thing," Spot answered, his voice suddenly a lot calmer now, "if the Sparrow don't get to you first."

"What's that about? Don't tell me you ain't comin' now? After you conned me into goin'?"

Teller glanced at Race and shook her head. In a mockery of Spot's own smirk, Teller smiled down at him. "You ain't comin', Conlon? We're not gonna be stuck lookin' at your mug all mornin'?"

"Laugh it up while ya can, Teller. I might have another lead to follow but that don't mean that I'm leavin' this all up to you. I don't even want you here, remember? You're lucky Mouth's taken a likin' to ya or I'd be kickin' you down Duane Street myself."

I had been watching Jack watching the outside when Spot's snide voice suddenly washed over me. I managed to pay attention to what he was saying to Teller just in time to hear his comment. I could actually feel my mouth drop open in embarrassment; my cheeks went hot and I could imagine how red my face was.

What the heck did Spot mean by that?

I was sputtering a bit but Teller… she was much better at handling Spot than I was.

Rolling her eyes, she placed the palm of her hand in front of her mouth before obviously faking a yawn. "Uh-huh, Conlon. Whatever ya say."

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, now that NaNoWriMo '08 is done -- I won, too! Check out my profile for my fictionpress account... I'm posting "The Fairest" there! -- it's time to get back to my fan fiction writing. Up first: The Lark. I love this chapter -- and the part that follows. It's so much fun doing the bickering between Spot and Teller, not to mention the inclusion of Race and the role he'll have to play._

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Expect more from me soon ;)  
_

_-- stress, 11.30.08_


	5. In Which Teller Draws Death

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

I had a pretty good hunch that Spot had quite a bit more that he wanted to say but, before he had the chance, Jack decided to add to our conversation. But this time he didn't even turn his back on his post at the window, and if I hadn't been fighting back my growing embarrassment, I might've noticed his self-imposed solitude. It wasn't like Jack at all to keep his distance. Sure, he kept a lot of his thoughts to himself but he was still the sort of boy who liked to be the center of attention. His thought-filled silence was making me a little uneasy.

"Spot," he called, the low timbre of his voice demanding everyone's attention his way. He continued to stare out the window and onto the street. As if he had called all of our names, we all turned to look at him and I could barely hide my sigh of relief. Jack had some good timing. "You're still goin'?"

All playfulness was gone from Spot. Quick as a flash, he was as serious as I'd ever seen him. "I gotta, Jacky. Ya see that, don't ya?"

"But alone?"

That seemed to stump him. He shrugged, a small shake of his thin shoulders that seemed to show just how helpless—_helpless_, I couldn't even believe it_—_he was feeling. "What other choice do I got? Someone's gotta go to Bottle Alley. And I sure as hell don't trust Race to go over there on his own, dammit!"

Jack was silent but I could imagine just what thoughts were going through his head now. From his reaction earlier, I didn't think he wanted to be the one visiting Race's friend Meggie either.

"I've got an idea," interrupted Race, his dark eyes suddenly bright in spite of Spot's remark. And I recognized that look of his, too. He was already trying to come up with a way to get out of helping us anymore than he felt he had to. "Look, there's five of us, right? Spot's got something of his own he wants to do but, c'mon, four of us has gotta be too many to parade on over and down to Bottle Alley. But," he said, holding up one of his pudgy, stubby fingers as he moved past Teller, reached over to his bunk and grabbed his deck of cards, "we can fix that. How's to lettin' Lady Luck decide, eh?"

His fingers flew as he hurriedly began to shuffle the cards. He didn't look down but grinned cheekily at us all instead. "How's this? I'll shuffle, then we draw cards. Whoever gets the two highest cards go together, and the two lowest are a pair. Spot and his buddy will take go off on his lead and the other two—" He paused there, both in his speech and his shuffling, as his cheeky grin turned sly. There was no doubt who he was looking at now. Luckily, Teller seemed amused more than anything by his overt attention. "The other two will have to cross over to Bottle Alley."

My embarrassment had finally started to recede but it was suddenly replaced with another strong emotion: jealousy. I frowned and crossed my arms over my chest. "Two and two makes four, Race. What about the fifth?" What about _me_?

"I don't know," he answered, not sounding concerned in the least. If he was an actor, he was a ham. "I guess they get to pick where they want to go. That sound good, Dave?"

What could I say? That I was suddenly worried that Race would handle his marked cards in a way that left him alone with Teller while I tagged along behind Jack and Spot? Worse even, that Race would goof, leaving Spot and me partners while both Jack and Race went with Teller over to Bottle Alley?

I didn't even wonder what would happen if Racetrack's somewhat skewed sense of humor led him to offer two high cards to Teller and Spot. If the two of them had to head off together, maybe even try to be civil to one another, I think the world as I knew it would simply cease to _exist_.

So, aware of at least three sets of eyes on me, watching my obvious hesitation either with interest or annoyance, I just nodded my head. At any rate, I could save my overactive imagination for after the cards had been drawn. "That's fine."

"Good." Race's smile turned predatory, like a shark swimming out to greet its intended prey. I wondered if the crooked way his teeth stuck out bothered him but I couldn't find it in me to ask. I didn't want to be rude; I contented myself with a mildly disgusted expression.

He was still shuffling but his hands had slowed considerably. His dark eyes narrowing on the back of the worn cards, it wasn't hard to know what he was doing—or, precisely, what he was looking for. Race didn't even glance up as he said, "Okay, then. We ready?"

"Not just yet."

Swiveling my head, I turned to look at Spot in time to see him hold out one of his hands impatiently; the other hand was searching behind him. I think he was reaching into his back pocket because, when he pulled his hand out and smirked victoriously over at Race, he was holding tightly to something that was too big for his rather small fist. It was only when he held his hand up so that we could all get a good look at it that I realized what he held: an older, shabbier pack of cards.

"How 'bout we use these?"

I have to give Racetrack credit. His assured and sneaky smile barely dipped but there was something about his eyes. They narrowed shrewdly for just a moment, eyeing Spot closely, before they widened incredibly in an innocent fashion. It reminded me of that time when Mama caught Les with his finger in the dinner stew. Definitely guilty.

Trying not to sound as if that was the case, Race asked curiously, "Since when do you carry a pack of cards around with you, Spot?"

"Since Jack told me that we was comin' to talk to you, Race," was Spot's smart reply. "Now, what was it you said? Top two cards together, bottom two cards together, right? And whoever's in the middle gets to choose."

"Uh, yeah. That's… that's what I said."

"That's what I thought."

Spot wasn't as comfortable with a pack of cards in his hands. He didn't drop any of the faded, worn cards but his shuffling was nowhere near as impressive as Racetrack's had been. Finally, when he himself pronounced his satisfaction that they were properly mixed, he held them out in a fan, facedown.

He offered the pile to Race, his trademark smirk back in place. "You can pick first."

"Gee, Spot, thanks."

Ignoring Race, Spot sidestepped him so that he had moved right in front of me. "Okay, Mouth. You're up," he said, shoving the cards towards me. I didn't trust Spot any more than I did Racetrack when it came to gambling, even if Spot seemed more of the high risk gambler of sorts, in my opinion.

Cautious and shrewd as he was, there was no denying his carefree and adventurous spirit at times, especially when it came to standing up for himself—not to mention the fact that most Brooklyn boys, I understand, are cheats. Back when I sold newspapers with Jack in the mornings, I learned almost as much from the idle chatter at the distribution center than I did in lessons now.

I stared carefully at the back of each card, frowning as I did so, while I made my choice. If Spot marked these himself, I had to congratulate him because he did it in a way where I couldn't tell.

"C'mon, c'mon already. We ain't got all day."

Spot's bark made me a little nervous. My hand gave a small shake as I reached out and grabbed one of the cards from right in the middle. Like Racetrack had done, I kept it angled down and away, shielding it so that no one else could see.

"Me next," announced Teller.

An obvious sneer crossed Spot's face but he said nothing as he begrudgingly offered her the deck. He didn't make it easy for her, keeping the fanned out display of cards much closer to his chest than out to Teller, but she was able to reach for a card with nimble fingers anyway. She didn't even stop to think about which card it was that she wanted to choose—quick as a flash, Teller shot out her hand and took the card that was resting on the top of the pile.

"Happy now?" Spot asked as Teller lifted her card up to get a peek at it. I tried to sneak a look too, but all I could see that it was a black card before she clapped it between her two palms.

Teller's dark eyes looked past Spot until she found me trying to catch a glimpse of her card. I could feel my face heating up and I quickly turned my face away. But I could still see the way her lips turned up into that familiar crooked smile of hers as she remarked quite flippantly, "Don't forget about Cowboy, Conlon."

He gritted his teeth as he stared back up at Teller. I could swear that his eyes flashed and I doubted that the morning sun had nothing to do with it. "What do I look like to ya? A mook?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" she asked sweetly.

"Why, I ought—"

Once again Jack showed off his impeccable timing and I couldn't be more grateful. "Spot, this ain't the time. We can't afford to waste anymore and your bickerin' is gettin' old." He sighed and pushed himself away from the window before turning around and walking over to our group. "Where's the cards?" he asked, pushing the thick strands of hair out of his face. It was another surprise to see just how tired and dark he looked up close. "Let's just get this over with. Sarah's waitin' for us."

I don't know who Jack's muttered words struck more: me or Spot. I felt my stomach drop at the mention of my sister; guilt was overwhelming as I realized that, for the last quarter of an hour or so, I'd all but forgotten that the whole aim of this meeting was to find the Sparrow and my sister. And Spot… well, the look that crossed his carefully sculpted face made me wonder if he'd been punched dead in the stomach.

"You got a point, Cowboy," he mumbled, looking pained as he made that admission. "Here. Pick your card."

Jack didn't even glance at the cards thrust in front of him. With a single ink-stained finger, he tapped one of the cards and waited until Spot flicked it into his open palm. Then, since he was the only one left, Spot grabbed one of the cards at random before gathering the cards together and shoving them back into his pocket.

"Alright, turn 'em over," Spot ordered. No one argued with him and five cards were displayed. Continuing in his role as orchestrator of this decision-making process, he looked at the cards and pointed them out in turn. "Jack, a king. Race, a two. Me, I've got a six. David, what's that? Okay, a ten. And Teller… look at that, ace of spades. The death card. You sure know how to pick 'em, kid."

"Thanks, Conlon," Teller said, drily this time. Her fake sweet tone had disappeared entirely.

Spot just smirked back in return.

It was Racetrack who realized what the cards meant. "Two and six are low cards so I guess that sticks me with Conlon."

"Ya don't sound pleased there, Higgins."

Without even skipping a beat, Race cracked a big grin and added, "I'm sure it'll be a ball, Spot. I was wonderin' what it was ya had to do and, 'sides, I didn't really want to head down to Bottle Alley. I still owe Meggie two bits from the last time I ran into her."

"Okay, so Spot and Race are going off together," I said, my heart beating quickly all of a sudden. Race wasn't the only one who figured out who was going with who. "And since Jack and Teller both have the cards with faces on it, then that means they are going to Bottle Alley… so…"

"That puts ya in the middle, Mouth. Who ya goin' with?"

I really didn't have that much of a choice to make, did I? Race and Spot or Jack and Teller? Spend the afternoon with the self-proclaimed king of Brooklyn—the self-proclaimed king of Brooklyn who was not only the most feared newsie in New York but also Sarah's beau—and the biggest wiseass this side of the Hudson. On the other hand, I could tag along with my new friend and my old friend, both of who I was still interested to learn how they knew each other. _And_ I was still trying to figure out the sudden change over Jack, why he'd switched from one personality to another since Sarah has been gone.

Not to mention the fact that I didn't really like the idea of Jack and Teller being alone…

Hmm…

"I guess I'll go with them," I said, pointing right at Jack. I felt Teller's hand as she rested it lightly on the back of my arm again. My blush was almost immediate and I hoped that Spot didn't notice. I could just imagine what he would have to say about _that_ when all was said and done.

"Figures," muttered Race.

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, here it is. I've been trying to sit down and finish working on this chapter since the beginning of December. However, Christmas bared its head and swept me up in its whirlwind of holiday festivities. On the upside, though, I did spend one morning at work, plotting out the entire course of this story and its eventual sequel. (Yes, this will be part of a trilogy but good things come in threes, eh?) It's going to be even more interesting than I first thought -- and I hope you guys enjoy it!_

_I hope you all had a great holiday, whatever you celebrate, and happy new year! Expect a lot more out of me soon -- the next couple of chapters are partly written and I'm really excited to introduce a couple more characters!_

_-- stress, 12.28.08_


	6. In Which a Warning is Gave

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

As we made our way across town, making the short trip from Duane Street to Bottle Alley, I tried to remember as much I could that I had heard about that place. Since I hadn't been there before—my family's apartment was in the opposite direction from both Duane and the distribution center on Chatham and I'd never known any of the girls who lodged that way myself—I had nothing to go on but chance comments and vague mentions of the area.

Not to mention the unpleasant aroma that seemed to grow stronger with every step I took in that direction…

Like the Duane Street Lodging House, the Bottle Alley Home for Girls was located around the old Five Points. I was pretty certain that Bottle Alley itself was tucked somewhere in the Mulberry Bend, just past Park Street. I couldn't say for certain where the Girls' Home was positioned in the alley, or if it was in a better part of the slum, and, to tell the truth, I wasn't all that eager to find out.

It just seemed… dirtier, maybe, the further down Duane we went. Of course, that might have been a mix of my nerves and my own prejudices, and I didn't say anything to the others about it. They wouldn't understand, anyway.

And it wasn't like I _could _say anything to them, either. Once Duane Street ended and we'd turned left onto Park, the three of us weren't even walking together. Teller, unsurprisingly, was leading the way, and I had resumed my habit of following her faithfully. Jack kept behind us but, whenever I glanced over my shoulder to check on him, the gap between him and me seemed to widen with every step.

With the exception of making plans to meet up with Spot back at the lodging house when his lead had been followed up on, Jack hadn't said a single word since we split up from the other two boys. No doubt something was weighing on his mind—his brow was furrowed so deeply that I was afraid the lines would be etched in his skin when he finally remembered to smile again—and I knew better than to try to talk to him. Sometimes he just needed to be alone for awhile.

We all do, really, me included. Even now, in between letting my mind settle on our destination, I felt my thoughts wander until I was wondering just what Sarah was doing at this moment. She was with the Sparrow, I knew, but what did that mean? Was she safe? Was she scared?

I didn't know and I tried to keep from continually thinking about the horrible things that could be happening to my sister. I was doing the best I could for her and, just then, the best I could do was finish following Teller to Bottle Alley. The only thing we had to go on was a proposed visit with Racetrack's old friend. I'd worry about Sarah again after I'd learned all I could about the Sparrow from this Meggie.

And Teller, she seemed the most lighthearted of us three. As usual, she led the way and she did so in a pace so quick that my poor blisters seemed to ache anew as I tried in vain to keep up with her. I wasn't surprised in the least that she knew the path to where we were going—I was growing even more convinced that Teller knew how to get _anywhere_.

It was my opinion that her newfound good humor—over the top, even for her—was because it was just the three of us going to Bottle Alley: the three of us and not Spot. She'd even gotten out a few cheap shots at the Brooklyn newsie right after we separated but when Jack just grunted and I laughed nervously, she decided to keep to herself, too.

The quiet—the quiet surrounding my companions, I mean; the streets of New York, even on a Sunday, were as busy and noisy as ever—lasted only as long as our trip did. Park Street intersected with Mulberry and I knew we were getting close. Unfamiliar with the area, I tried to see if I could recognize which of the alleys was Bottle Alley. I failed miserably, though. When Teller stopped suddenly and, in that self-assured way she had that made you believe that she always knew what she was talking about, announced that we'd made it to Bottle Alley, I hadn't had any idea.

Just as I feared, the Bottle Alley Home for Girls was centered on the corner that led straight into Bottle Alley—a narrow alleyway paved with irregularly shaped flagstones and littered with waste and rags. A horrid scent of filth and disease was in the air and it was all I could do not to hold my nose. A quick glance at the others revealed that both Jack and Teller seemed nonplused by the conditions and I envied them.

Swallowing back a gag, I looked back on the small building on the corner. It alone was the only bright spot that I could make out down the darkened alleyway; its bricks weren't as shabby as the others, and the sign that pronounced it as the Bottle Alley Home was pretty with its faded pink script.

I wasn't the only one of use staring at the building. Once Teller and I had stopped, Jack continued until he had taken a few steps past me. The Home was on the opposite side of the street but he paused before actually crossing over. He paused and, with a strange and uncomfortable air surrounding him, he stared.

It was odd. Jack looked at the place like he'd never really seen it before, but wary and apprehensive. I knew that wasn't true—apart from Racetrack's comment earlier, I remembered that Jack had stepped out with a number of different girls after last summer. Was he really that concerned about meeting somebody inside?

I didn't know and, when Teller cleared her throat to get our attention, I stopped worrying about it. Jack could handle himself and his own troubles, after all. I hadn't forgotten how easily had brushed off my last attempts to help him, or how stubbornly he had lied to me when this whole mess started.

With her hands on her hips and her head cocked to the side so that her braid was hanging over her shoulder, Teller turned around and eyed both of us. Her dark stare was narrowed and her mouth was drawn in a thin line. It seemed, to me at least, that playtime was over; it was time for business.

"So, uh, Jack? You know Meggie, don't ya?" she asked, sounding strangely hesitant all of a sudden. It was definitely at odds with the fierce way she looked down on us both.

Jack was still staring at the building before us, rubbing the back of his neck absently as he fiddled with the lengths of his worn, faded red neckerchief. His head gave a little jerk when Teller addressed him but, like he had acted when we were still in the bunkroom, he barely acknowledged it. All he said was, "Yeah, I've seen her around."

Teller nodded to herself as if she understood before she turned on me. "But you don't, right, Dave?"

I wished I could surprise them both and tell them that I knew exactly who they were talking about—but I couldn't, and that made me more than a little annoyed. I'd been the one to go to lessons and learn about the world and here I was, running all over New York with a newsie and a street girl, and both of them knew far more than I did. Maybe annoyed wasn't even strong enough of a word. Frustrated was better.

Shaking my head, trying to hide my blossoming scowl, I admitted it. "No, I don't."

It made it even worse that Teller didn't look surprised at all. "Okay. Well, in that case, just don't… just don't stare."

"What?" Was she joking?

Teller's eyebrow quirked at the way I sounded so confused. "I ain't kiddin'. Don't stare 'cause it'll be one of the last things ya do if Meggie catches ya lookin' at her that way."

And she was serious too.

There was nothing else I could do. I nodded as I shrugged my shoulders. "Alright. I won't stare."

"Good." Then, swirling around so fast that her dark plait swung out behind her like that spinning fan at Tibby's, Teller hefted up the hems of her long skirt and started to hurry across the street.

The way she moved so quickly gave me a start and I cried out to her, calling her name.

It amazed me that she could still hear my voice, as loud as it was, but she did. She stopped at once, turning on her heel to face the corner where Jack and I still stood. "What is it, Dave?"

"Aren't you going to wait for us?"

I couldn't hear her laugh but I was sure she was laughing. I didn't see what was so funny. We'd all walked to Bottle Alley together, hadn't we? Why shouldn't we actually go to the building together?

"Can't," she yelled back, offering a small wave. "Girls only!" Teller turned on her heel again, without waiting for me to call back an answer. She must have known I would have nothing to say—this was almost like that night at the Midtown Lodging House all over again, and she knew it. Just like the Midtown House was for boys alone, it made perfect sense that me and Jack would have to wait outside.

Feeling a bit foolish, I tried to watch as she made her way into the mouth of Bottle Alley. I lost her at once, though; she was swallowed up within the heavy crowd almost instantly, gone without a trace.

She left and that left me and Jack alone. It was almost strange, being with someone that wasn't Teller—I'd been partnered with her since Friday night, though it seemed much longer than that—but, in a way, I was grateful it was Jack.

Something strange had come between us lately, even before this business with the Sparrow taking my sister. I'd chalked it up to me going off to lessons again. So busy with school, I hadn't been able to sell the morning edition of the _World_ with Jack and Les since last summer, but seeing how strange he was acting these last couple of days was really making me wonder.

Well, there was only one thing left to do. Curiosity is as curiosity does—and curiosity means asking lots of questions. Who knows? Maybe I might even get an answer to one of my questions. It was about time, after all…

Turned so that I was facing him, I moved so that I was just about standing at his side. If he noticed my company, he didn't say anything. No matter, though. I was going to be the first one to talk.

"So, Jack, what's wrong?"

He didn't even give a start. He just continued to stare ahead of him. "Nothin'. There ain't nothin' wrong."

"And you're lying." I gave my head a little shake. How foolish did he think I was? I'd always been able to tell when he was being less than honest—even when he didn't want to admit it. "You're still lying… why?"

His lips pursed like an old maid's. For a second there was a hint of the Jack that I knew but then, after a moment's pause, he exhaled and all the fight seemed to flee from him. "I like to call it improvin' the truth, Davey."

"Of course you do, I know that. But that still doesn't explain anything." Following him, I let out a small sigh and held my hands out in a halfhearted gesture. I could always tell when Jack was lying, but that didn't mean that I was as successfully when it came to getting him to tell the truth. "What is it, Jack? Is it… is it Sarah?"

I knew right away that my suggestion was right on the mark; it wasn't surprising, since this whole thing revolved around my sister and her abduction by the dreaded Sparrow. Jack's hands, hanging down at his side, balled up into small fists and his thin lips froze, midway to a mocking frown. The little lines that surrounded his mud brown eyes seemed to tighten, even.

But, whether he was lying to me or lying to himself, he didn't say anything about Sarah at all. Instead, he muttered, "It ain't that, Davey. It's Teller, actually."

I think that, if Jack would've said anything else, I might've pushed the issue. But he said Teller and, though I didn't forget about Sarah, something else struck me just then. I'd never really figured out what sort of relationship the two of them, Jack and Teller, had. When I first met her, she was sitting with Jack and I'd immediately assumed she was his new girl. I was pretty certain that wasn't the case but I still didn't know how they knew each other. Maybe now it was time to find out.

"Teller? What about Teller?"

I tried to sound as innocent and offhanded as I could. By the way that Jack lifted his head and looked searchingly over his shoulder at me, I think I failed.

But he answered me all the same.

"That Teller, she makes me iffy, Dave. She's always been the enemy, workin' for the Sparrow like Spot keeps goin' on about. I was good to her 'cause she ain't ever done me no harm, but… iffy, I tell ya. She gave me quite a turn to see her at Tibby's the other day."

"You hadn't invited her?"

Jack's eyebrow gave a little arch at my question. "Now why would I do that?" Smiling just a little, he clapped me on the back once before returning to his place a few steps ahead of me. "Don't worry about me. I ain't got any interest in her like that."

My knees buckled a little under the weight of Jack's slap and I only remembered just in time to be mildly embarrassed by what Jack was suggesting. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jack."

"Whatever ya say. But ya ain't foolin' me and Teller… well, she's… she's—"

He stopped there, his voice coming to a certain close before he lowered his eyes and cursed under his breath.

I felt myself frowning. For a few moments, at least, Jack had resumed his humorous nature. Now the sourpuss was back—and not just a sourpuss: a sourpuss who had stopped his sentence and a very interesting point. "She's what, Jack?"

Shaking his head, he outstretched his hand and pointed one particularly ink-stained finger out in front of him. He sounded resigned as he muttered, "Look. She's comin'."

"I don't see anything."

"You will."

I had no idea what Jack was talking about. Following his point, I wondered if it was Teller he'd seen—his reaction would make sense then, especially after what we had just talked about—but I didn't see her. She was… unique enough that I didn't think I would miss her, either.

Maybe it was Meggie then, I thought. She _was_ the girl we were waiting for, after all. If so, I had nothing to go on but a name and the face that she has some sort of connection to the Sparrow. That alone made me interested to see what sort of girl willingly dealt with him. I wondered if she would be anything like Teller—and I was also very interested to see what there was about this girl that made Teller so certain that I shouldn't stare at her.

As I shielded my eyes and looked out into the street until my eyes watered from the force of the strain, I had to marvel a bit at myself and how different I'd been acting ever since Sarah disappeared. Honestly, I was becoming almost as curious as a cat!

But I didn't see anyone out of the ordinary approaching us; at least, not straight away. Hidden somewhere in the middle of the hustling, bustling group of people who crowed the entryway to Bottle Alley, I didn't see anyone in particular at all until she'd walked straight up to Jack and grinned.

She was—there was no way around it—_lovely._ Not too tall and not too thin, this girl had fair skin and hair that was so blonde it was closer to white than gold. Like Teller, she wore lip paints than accentuated her pouting mouth and coal around a set of eyes that were as green as the grass in Central Park. She wore her hair long, loose waves that hung down her back, tied back with a pale pink ribbon. She wore no hat but the light grey dress she did wear was fitted for her perfectly.

Her coloring was strange, very similar to Dutchy down at the lodging house, and I tried to figure where her family had been from. Germany, maybe? Or perhaps she was a Swede. She had to be a foreigner, I wagered. One thing I was sure of, though: she was unlike any New Yorker I'd ever seen before.

"Oh, Jack," she called, and I couldn't help but think her voice suited her. It was high and clear with just enough of a hint of a girlish giggle. "It's really you here, isn't it? And here I'd thought she was fibbing."

Then, almost as an afterthought, she turned her bright eyes on me. My smile was fleeting as I felt the weight of her expression; I dropped my gaze to those strangely shaped (and very filthy) flagstones.

No wonder Teller had warned me not to stare. It was almost impossible not to.

* * *

Author's Note_: First things first: Happy New Year! Can you believe it's already 2009? I can't -- here's to hoping this year is just as good as 2008 (if not better) and perhaps even a bit more productive ;)_

_And here we are again. I told you I'd actually be updating more and I mean to :) I got a new laptop for Chrismas and I'm having such a ball, getting it up and running and using all of the programs I have now. It's so much fun -- I feel all creative again. I'm even going through some of my older stories to see if there were any of them I wanted to salvage and start up again. Who knows?_

_As for this story, I am totally in love with it right now. This chapter was fun -- Bottle Alley research itself was great! -- and I can't wait to get to next chapter. Remember, everything is not what it seems... _

_-- stress, 01.01.09_


	7. In Which the Opposites are Introduced

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

"This must be Teller's friend," she cooed, sashaying over to my side and, in an act most forward, draping her hand on my arm. This close, I noticed that she arrived in a cloud of cheap scent. It was so strong that I nearly choked but, all the same, I appreciated it. The sickly sweet flower water was overpowering as it burned my nose but it _did _drown out the horrible smell from the slum. "Jack, why don't you introduce us?"

"Why don't you let me?"

Teller's voice, as sharp as it was out of breath, was a very welcome surprise. I was almost frozen by the touch of this girl and, if this was Meggie—and, as such, was someone I was turning to for help—I didn't want to upset her by being rude and shrugging her hand off of me. Still, it was very uncomfortable to be this close to her; even worse now that Teller was right here. Now it was my turn to feel like Les getting caught with his finger in the dinner stew: guilty, guilty,_ guilty_.

I could feel my face heating up and I didn't know whether to be relieved or not that Teller had shown up when she had. Despite her warning, I had to dare a glance up. The blond girl was pouting as received a rather heated stare on Teller's part. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she let go of my arm before sidling back over to Jack.

"Teller, my pet. I was just saying hello to a couple of friends of mine."

"Oh, so you know David then?"

I didn't understand where the sudden venom came from that had found its way into her tone. Even the way she spat out my name made me want to cringe. Confronted with another girl Teller seemed to become someone else entirely.

"Not yet," the blonde girl replied, her thin upper lip curling back in a coy smile.

Gulping, I was unsure how to handle such attention. Before Friday, I could count the amount of conversations I had had with a girl that wasn't family on one hand. Between that first talk with Rachel, spending the last three days with Teller and now this… it was all too overwhelming.

"Rosamund," Jack sighed, and there was no sociable pretense in his suddenly flat voice, "what are ya doin' here?"

Rosamund? Who was Rosamund?

I didn't even remember to turn away. My eyes wide and suspicious, I stared openly at her fair features. Jack had called her by the name of Rosamund—did that mean that this girl wasn't Meggie?

Goodness, I _hated _not knowing what exactly was going on. You would think that, after the last few days, I would have a better sense of understanding but no… at every turn, at every crossroad, something was thrown my way to make me question ever worrying about a darn door being left open.

"Aw, Jacky. Don't you worry your pretty little head, now. You must know that you're still the only one for me. But it's been so long, hasn't it? You haven't been my way in _ages_…" she purred, her attention suddenly riveted back on Jack. If it wasn't for the uncharacteristically tiresome look that crossed Jack's frowning face, I might've breathed a sigh of relief that this Rosamund had seemed to forgotten me.

Teller, meanwhile, had not. I don't know when precisely she had joined me on the corner, but there she was, her left hand perched gently on my arm. It was very similar to the gesture Rosamund had made when she first arrived by us, but it was nothing at all as uncomfortable. In fact, it felt kind of… nice.

My lips were slightly turned up in a sheepish grin. That lasted just as long as it took me to move my head around and get a good look at Teller's pronounced scowl. My head whipped back into its forward position. Suddenly, watching Jack squirm under Rosamund's cheeky grin seemed a lot more interesting.

"I've been busy," he said at last, bristling a bit at the girl's attention.

Her prim lips pursed a little as she tilted her head to the side. I was reminded of the way Teller had watched me when we first met on Madison Avenue. At least with her, though, I had only felt uncomfortable by the way I was studied; Rosamund was looking at Jack as if he was her lunch.

"You haven't been coming around the alley, so it ain't one of our girls who's taken you from me," she pouted, her dainty white hand resting on Jack's shoulder. I saw Jack frown, the lines around his mouth tighten, as he looked down his nose on her fidgeting fingers. He didn't say anything, though, as she added, "Is she prettier than me?"

Strangely enough, even though he seemed bothered by the way Rosamund was talking down to him, I couldn't help but notice a defiant glint in his eye—not to mention a faint hint of red under his tanned complexion. My blasted curiosity reared its head again as I wondered just who Jack was spending his evenings with. I knew one thing, though: it wasn't Sarah.

However, as I was learning all too well, nothing kills a fledgling curiosity like a well-placed barb and a smart remark.

"I just hope it's not that Jacobs girl again, Jacky. She's just so darn dull, and hardly worth your time at all." She paused before saying to me, "I don't suppose you've met that mousy girl, hm?"

"You could say that," Teller interrupted before I'd had the chance to say anything. "That's his sister."

Rosamund blinked in my direction. "Really? You're a Jew, too?" Her nose wrinkled as she shook her head sadly. "Such a pity."

I have to say, she didn't look half as pretty to me now. Blatant bigotry had a way of really opening up a fella's eyes sometimes. I felt my mouth drop open in surprise at Rosamund's comment, her pity for me being Jewish even worse than her insult of Sarah.

It was tough being different, I knew that. All my life, whenever I happened to leave my good Jewish neighborhood, I was reminded how hard it was to be different—whether I believed in some other faith, I spoke another language, or my skin was another color—and how… _stupid _people could be when it came to such tiny differences.

That was what was so great about being a newsie. The poor, the alone…they could afford to believe in anyone who believed in them. If you had it in you to wake up with the distribution bell and sell newspapers, you were accepted. It didn't matter who you were, what you thought, where you came from—

—and here was some blonde foreigner announcing to two friends of mine that it was a pity I was a Jew.

I didn't know what to say. Honestly, I was struck dumb. All I could do was stare at her in a mixture of disbelief and disgust at her ignorance.

Jack seemed bothered by Rosamund's words, too. At any rate, his eyes flashed and he roughly shook her hand off of his shoulder.

But it was Teller who came to my rescue.

"What does that got to do with anything? Dave's a real good guy."

Rosamund, if she noticed the way that Jack had moved away from her, didn't act like his distance meant anything to her at all. She just shook her head, smiling over at Teller. "You poor thing. You're so simple, Teller."

"Yeah, and you're a nitwit!"

"Am I? Are you sure?"

There was something about the way she said that. Her high-pitched voice seemed to harden for just those few words, a daring quality to their rough edge. I have to admit, I was a little taken aback by the way she wheeled on Teller like that.

"Where's Meggie?" Jack cut in smoothly. His eyes were on Teller, watching her as she glared at Rosamund, her mouth twisted in an extremely unladylike snarl.

It took her a moment to realize that Jack had directed that question at her. That, or she was stalling—I couldn't really tell. Finally, after giving her head a little bit of a shake, she said, "What? Oh… she's comin'."

"Meggie? What are you looking for her for, Jacky? Don't tell me that you didn't come all this way to see her instead of me."

Jack's frown twitched a little; I had the feeling he was trying awful hard to hang onto that grimace. I got the impression that he was relieved all of a sudden. "Just something I gotta ask her, Rosamund. You understand."

I didn't think she did. The more I looked at her, the more I wondered if her act was just that: an act. She'd tilted her head just so as she listened to Jack's answer, but her green eyes were narrowed shrewdly as she nodded. "And then…later, maybe?"

"Maybe."

Rosamund glanced over her shoulder, her reluctance to be separated from Jack obvious. "I don't see her."

"I said she's comin', didn't I?" snapped Teller.

"Then I guess I'll be going back." She sounded wistful as she grinned over at Teller. "I'm sure I'll be hearing from you soon, Teller, my pet."

Teller just huffed.

Rosamund turned on Jack again. I'm almost positive that he winced when she did. "And you, Jack. I'll be counting the minutes," she said, pausing only to blow him a chaste kiss before flouncing back across the way.

"Yeah, well, don't hold your breath," Jack muttered. I couldn't help but be just a little amused that he'd waited until the back of Rosamund's fair head had vanished in the much darker crowd around her.

I shook my head. I wasn't sure that now was the right moment to ask… but I had to. If only to draw attention away from the fact that she ignored me entirely as she left, I had to ask. "Who was _that_?"

"Rosamund," said Jack.

"Nitwit," muttered Teller.

I'd figured that much. "No, I mean who _was_ she? Did she come from the Bottle Alley Home, too? She seems to know you." And Sarah, I added to myself. But Jack was looking grumpy just then so I thought it best not to say that out loud.

Since Teller seemed to be the expert on the Girls' Home, I'd hoped she would be the one to answer me. Unfortunately, she didn't feel like living up to her name; clasping her arms across her chest, Teller looked away, glancing back at the building across the way.

I shrugged my shoulders. Rosamund wasn't the only girl I couldn't understand today.

I think Jack decided it was high time to take some pity on me because he was the one who spoke up.

"Ya see, Dave, there's this nice old lady what runs Bottle Alley. Mrs. Cook. Story goes that she found a kid on the front stoop a coupla years back. Rosamund was left on her doorstep and Cookie, well, she couldn't say no to that face… well, ya seen her… so she took her in, made her a ward. Shame for us is that ol' Rosamund, she never left again."

"Yeah, she's got a nice face alright, but no brains," Teller huffed again, breaking her harsh silence. "Goddamn nitwit, like I said."

"But why did she leave like that?" I asked next, trying to accomplish two things at once. I felt like I should try to do something about changing the subject since it seemed to be a touchy one. That, and I couldn't really understand why Rosamund would run off when she clearly wanted to stay with Jack.

"She doesn't really like Meggie," Teller said bitterly, "but she's sure got a thing for Kelly here."

"Oh, so that _was _Rosamund I was flitting away just now. I should have known. You did, Teller."

At first, I couldn't tell where that voice was coming from. I hadn't realized it but I'd been staring at Teller. Because of that, I didn't notice that someone had taken Rosamund's place on the corner.

This time I was sure that it was Meggie.

"Jack," she nodded at him in greeting. He raised his hand in a silent greeting, a curious look on his face. She didn't seem to notice. She'd already turned her head away so that she was looking right at me.

I took the chance to get a good look at her. It was odd to see that, in almost every possible, she was the opposite of the fair Rosamund.

She was thin and scrawny; underfed, even by a working girl's standard. Meggie was short and nearly hidden in the dark and dusty black dress she had draped awkwardly over her tiny frame. With a nose that looked like a hawk's beak and scraggly raven hair that was pinned up messily like a bird's nest, I had the vaguest impression that she was more of a hatchling than a girl.

And, suddenly, as my eyes roved over her pale face, I really knew _exactly_ what Teller had meant by "don't stare". I had never seen anything so unbecoming before on a girl in my life and my stomach ached in both sympathy and mild disgust.

It was a scar, but not a faded one. It wasn't a fresh wound, not really, but the mark stood out against the white flesh of her throat. A horrible mix of dark pink and purple, the scar was about an inch thick and more than a hand long. I couldn't tell exactly where it started from—I was wagering it began just below her right ear—but it crossed nearly the entire length of her throat before stopping at the mouth of her dress.

My own throat burned at the sight. I gulped, only just resisting the urge to rub my clammy fingers across my neck.

"So you're David," she said then, interrupting my thoughts and reminding me that I was ogling her. "My name's Meggie."

Teller's words rang in my ears, almost drowning out Meggie's one-sided introduction. I didn't even try to guess how she knew my name—surely Teller had told her and, besides, it was hard enough to follow Teller's instructions and find anywhere to look but at Meggie's neck.

I settled on looking at a point one inch from her head. It was close enough that I might have been looking right into her eyes, but there was no way she could imagine I was still staring at that poor, ugly scar.

"Yes," I said, my voice just a touch strangled. "I'm David."

* * *

Author's Note: _I've been waiting to get to this part of the story for three chapters now :) I've always wanted to have a female character that I could hate as well as one I could really be proud of -- by the time _The Lark_ is done I hope to have one of each in both Rosamund and Meggie._

_I've already got a good chunk of the next chapter written -- I plan on riding this wave on inspiration as long as I can. I haven't had so much fun with a set of OC's in ages!_

_Until next time! -- stress, 01.07.09_


	8. In Which the Hatchling Finds Her Voice

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

"Well, David, Teller tells me that the rumors are true. That the Sparrow's back in town again," Meggie said and I couldn't help but consider it a chirp. Despite the cu that could've easily robbed her of it, her voice was even higher than Rosamund's, with a clear, musical quality to it. It was one of the most beautiful voices I'd ever heard, even more beautiful than Medda Larkson's; so beautiful, in fact, that it was easy to focus on the sweet sound rather than the ugly mark. There was a hint of a trill even as she added, "What do you have to say to that?"

"It's true. I even saw his sign myself," I said. I don't really know why I said it. Probably because Meggie seemed like the sort of girl who wouldn't believe anything without some proof first. If only I'd kept that stupid rock but I hadn't. I don't even remember where it was I dropped it.

My hunch about Meggie was right. Her hazel eyes flashed at the mention of the Sparrow's sign. "Ya did? Where?"

For just a moment I wondered if I should tell her about Jack's note—and the crumpled scrap of paper that Sarah had enclosed within it—before deciding to leave that up to him. The note had been written by Sarah for him, after all. Not me.

"On a rock," I admitted. I felt the corners of my mouth turn down as I remembered. I don't think I'd ever forget the sight of that foreboding message or the sickening thud it made as it hit the brick wall of the alleyway. "It was painted in white on a black rock."

"And let me guess. For a lark, someone tossed it at ya."

How did she know that? "Yes, actually, they did. Lucky for us, they missed."

"Sounds like the Sparrow alright," Meggie said, shaking her head. "Up to the same old tricks as always."

To that Teller added a snort. I ignored her. Now that I finally had someone at hand who might be able to help me make some more sense about this whole mess, help me really understand the Sparrow, I wasn't going to let anyone interrupt me.

"And that's not all," I said next, very much imploringly. "The Sparrow… he has my sister."

I think I expected her reaction to be a little bigger than it was. Meggie didn't look surprised at my words; instead, she acted as if she already knew that and was curious why I was telling her anyway.

"Miss Sarah, yes, so I've been told." Then, with a tiny, dirty hand that I thought should have talons but only had chewed-down nubs, she scratched her long nose and shrugged her shoulders. "Question is this, though: why did ya come here? I ain't flyin' with him no more."

"But you did," I argued quickly, a bit louder than I probably should have. Her disinterest was bothersome. My stomach clenched but I refused to look defeated. There was still some fight in me left—not a lot, but some.

"Racetrack Higgins set us on your tail, Meggie," added Teller, cutting in on the conversation. She must have noticed how different I was acting now, how aggressive I was suddenly being. Her voice had changed again, softer and more soothing. It was almost as if she, too, knew Meggie—knew her and knew just how to get her to respond. "Said you'd know something about the Sparrow if anyone did."

Unfortunately, though, Meggie didn't seem appeased at all by Teller's explanation. On the contrary, as she breathed heavily through her nose, she seemed angry. Shaking her head, thin wisps of black hair flying in the wind, Meggie snapped, "And Race lied." Her eyes, I noticed, were curiously flat; her voice suddenly emotionless. She turned away from us both, scowling, as if the sight of me and Teller made her ill.

But I couldn't believe her.

Desperation flooded through me, replacing my upset. Once again I could feel that last thread of hope slipping through my fingers. Spot's lead aside, Meggie was the only chance I had. If she didn't know anything about the Sparrow—or if she didn't want to tell what she did know—where did that leave me?

"Are you sure?"

"'Course I'm sure. 'Sides, what does it matter anyway? The Sparrow will tire of her soon enough and he'll set her free." A strange bitterness crept into her voice. "He always does."

It was fairly easy to see that there was far more to her words than she was willing to share with us. But I barely noticed as understanding dawned. She actually wanted me to wait until the Sparrow felt like releasing Sarah… was she mad? My cheeks were hot, my fists clenched as I said stubbornly, "That's my sister you're talking about!"

"So what? So she's your sister. What does that mean to him? Nothing I'm sure, specially if he's already tryin' to frighten you off."

"Well it didn't work, did it? I'm still here. I'm still looking for him."

"For how long, David?" she asked me. "Don't get me wrong. I admire ya for what you're doin', but how long do ya think you'll last? The rock, that's his idea of fun. You haven't seen him serious yet. And I don't think you should let it get that far. None of you'se. Ya don't know what'll happen if ya do."

"I don't care."

"Ya should."

Meggie was small but undeniably powerful, her warning honest and heartfelt. There was just something about her that made you realize that she was a force to be reckoned with. She had strength, she had courage, and she had smarts. But a hard life and… and something else—I made a point not to stare at her throat again—had made her hard and made her weary. She didn't have a pretty face, like Rosamund, to carry her through life; that much was obvious. But just as obvious was the fact that she didn't need a pretty face…

Jack and Teller had watched our exchange in silence. Their quiet was unusual, maybe more so for Teller; Jack, after all, had been acting strange every since Tibby's. And Teller… well, I couldn't say that Rosamund's visit hadn't unnerved her in some way.

While he was still facing forward, still staring at the Bottle Alley Home, Jack's head was tilted so that I was certain he was listening to every word we said. Teller wasn't so coy; despite her telling me earlier not to stare at Meggie, she was watching the shorter girl intently. Her dark eyes were troubled, her mouth drawn in a thin line.

I knew exactly how she felt.

"Please, Meggie," I began and I almost sounded as if I were pleading with her. It had gone too far now for me to just let it go—I needed her to understand that. "If there's anything you know, anything you can tell me at all… I just want to bring my sister back home."

That's what it was all about, after all.

Part of me, the rational part, expected her to shake her head and offer either more denials or more warnings. I was surprised when she did neither. Meggie just crossed her arms over her flat chest, pulling her too-big dress close to her. It showed off her skeletal frame, the fabric gathered under her arms flapping slightly like oversized wings. More than before, I thought of Meggie as a fresh hatchling.

"There's not much I can do for ya. Race, he knows that I turned my back on the Sparrow after…" She stopped there, her voice faltering as if she thought better about what she was going to say. Her pause lasted only a few more seconds before she started up again, abandoning her earlier words entirely. "Anyway, I don't keep up with none of them anymore but," she looked back at Teller, "I might knew a guy who does. But you'll owe me."

Teller was wearing the most peculiar expression as she asked, "Who's that?"

"Grampa."

"Ya found him? You're kiddin'! He moves around so damn much I ain't seen his mug since New York got all jumbled up and those kids in Queens… well, you remember."

"I never lost him," Meggie said smartly, grinning cockily as she easily looked past the last part of Teller's remark.. She was pleased with herself; for the first time since she joined us, she actually seemed to come alive. "We've kept in touch, ya know."

"Figures." Teller nodded to herself, shaking her head. "Where is he then?"

"Not too far, actually. He left his joint on the other side of Baxter at the end of last year, stayed at Mulberry Hall until the stink and the drunks got the better of him, and now he's at 46 Bowery. I'm sure he'll see you, 'specially if ya tell him I sent ya his way."

"Oh." Was that a flash of relief crossing her face? "In that case… yeah. Alright." Teller turned to me and I saw at once that the same crooked grin I'd come to know was stretched across her mouth. "Yeah, Dave. Ya owe her."

Of course I did.

I already owed Rachel Harpen for her tip, and Snipes for his gossip. I owed Alfie for his help over in Midtown… and now I owed Meggie for another address.

And I'll never forget the darn nickel Teller gave me.

"You owe me," Meggie said again, frowning as her sudden bout of amusement fled as quickly as it had arrived. She looked smaller than ever as she bowed her head and tucked her chin. For the first time since she arrived she was covering her scar—but it didn't last. She took a deep breath and lifted her head. "I just hope it all don't end up costin' any of ya more than bein' in my debt."

She squinted then, her hazel eyes barely a tiny slit in her small, narrow face. Still, her gaze was fixed on Teller; her eyes lingered. There was no doubt in my mind that when Meggie said "any of you", she was thinking about one person in particular. Her smile was a memory.

Teller, it seemed, had the same idea. Without turning away, she met Meggie's glare head-on. "There are worse things, Meggie."

I don't know what it was exactly that Teller said but Meggie's hand immediately flew to her throat. And, in that instant, I would've sworn that I saw her guard drop: her mouth parted slightly, her eyes widened to a point where they almost popped out of her head. There was surprise there, and hurt… and something else. Pain? Yes, Meggie looked pained.

But only for an instant. One second later and the same dull expression was back at home on Meggie's carefully composed features. She took the next moment to look at each of us again in turn before abruptly turning around and, without a word, walking away.

None of us followed her.

Teller didn't say anything at all and, unless I was imagining it, there was a look of guilt flashing across her face. She wasn't staring out across the street at the Bottle Alley Home like Jack was still doing, but there was no doubt in my mind that was where her eyes were focused. She was just sneakier about it.

My head was whirring with all I'd heard and all I'd learned since Meggie had joined us on the corner. I was left with an unsettled sensation in my gut and a pretty certain hunch that she'd known a lot more than she'd told us. I don't know… it was almost as if she was purposely choosing what she wanted to say carefully as if she was afraid of letting something slip. And in the end, what did I know now? Nothing, with the exception of another address and the hope that someone else could point me in the Sparrow's direction.

I was beginning to believe that there was no one who knew the Sparrow personally. Every time I thought I found someone who actually knew the Sparrow that person sent me on my way to someone else. It was no wonder I was getting so frustrated.

I huffed, exhaling loudly. The sound caught Teller's attention and, blinking once, she turned to look at me. But she still didn't say anything at all.

But that was all right. Before I started off towards Bowery Street I realized that there was something I really wanted to ask. The question had blossomed into my head, lingering on the tip of my tongue the entire time I talked to Meggie. Too nervous to ask her myself, I figured if anyone knew, Teller might.

I cleared my throat, stalling as I wondered just how I should phrase my question. "How did…" Strangely enough, my words failed me—I had the vague worry that Meggie might still be hovering nearby in the crowd and I didn't want her to overhear—so I lifted my hand up and touched my own throat lightly.

Teller understood what I meant. Scowling, she said, "The Sparrow."

"You mean—"

Surprised at my suddenly horrified expression, Teller lifted her hands up as she tried to explain. "No, it ain't like that, Dave. The Sparrow… he's a powerful guy. And he's good powerful friends and… and enemies. One of them, they did that to Meggie." Her scowl returned, the strength of the lines surrounding her mouth etching into her skin. "Meggie was his pet for a time. Songbird, he called her, on account that she had the most beautiful voice. But the Sparrow got on the wrong side of some goons in the Bronx and… and they decided to get to him through Meggie." She paused, the guilt even more noticeable now, before she shuddered and snarled passionately, "Them animals!"

I didn't know what to say to that—so I didn't say anything at all.

I didn't need to, either.

* * *

Author's Note: _Now, we didn't think their adventure would be that easy, did we? Poor David -- it only makes sense that, after everything he's gone through so far, it wouldn't end like that. There's _much _more in store for our friends :)_

_I want to give a very big thank you (and many online hugs) to Biddy and Pegasus. Your awesome reviews are keeping me pumped! I'm so thrilled you're enjoying this story so far -- I just hope you continue to ;)_

_-- stress, 01.11.09_


	9. In Which Open Mouths Mean Slow Feet

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

No surprise but Teller's outburst was followed by a grim set of her features and a refusal to say another word. She strode ahead of me and Jack, her eyes on the cobblestones and her hands curled into tight fists at her side. It looked like she wanted nothing more than to find those boys from the Bronx and punch them for what they've done to Meggie.

I made sure to fall back behind her, standing next to Jack instead of following right in her tracks. I had no intention of becoming her punching bag. One wrong word could set her off and luck didn't seem to be with me today.

Already I'd had to sneak out of my house without telling my parents where I was going again, head over to Duane Street to meet up with Jack and Spot (and Race), double back so that I was going to Bottle Alley and now this. My poor feet had given up hope that I'd ever get enough rest for them to heal. As it was, they were already past the throbbing, pus-filled stage. Now they were actually numb!

I gave my right foot an experimental shake, nearly colliding with Jack as I did. I almost fell but he caught my shoulder in his hand and held me steady before my left leg buckled underneath me.

"Watch it there, Dave," he murmured, letting go when he saw that I was standing straight again. "Last thing we need is for you to fall down on us now."

"Sorry, Jack." I offered him a sheepish grin, turning to look at him dead in the face. Whether he meant it or not, the low tone of his voice didn't disturb Teller's huff and quickened pace. She continued to move forward and I let her go. We'd catch up with her sooner or later. And if we didn't? Well, we had the address, too—and Teller did seem to need to have a little space right now.

As I thought before, Jack looked horrible up close. His mouth was drawn, worry lines standing out all over his suntanned face. The dark circles under his eyes were even more pronounced; they were fiercely red, as if he'd been rubbing them roughly. There was no life in him, just grief, and I wondered more now than ever what he was so preoccupied with. Like Teller, did he know more about the Sparrow than I did? Was he really to be feared that much?

I didn't think anything—not even the prospect of spending the next four years in the Refuge—could shake Jack Kelly. I'd always believed that he could handle everything, facing it with a cocky grin and a knowing look in his bright eyes. The realization that Jack was just as human as the rest of us was humbling—and just an wrenching as knowing that I was still so far from finding Sarah.

Jack must have known that I was staring at him so intently; I wasn't even trying to hide it. I saw his eyebrow arch, a hint of his smile coming to him as he stared right back. "Don't mention it."

He patted me on my back, propelling me forward by a step or two. He took the lead, wide steps in a quick fashion so that he could catch up to Teller. She'd already gone ahead by a whole half street but was waiting for us at the corner; she'd noticed that we had lagged behind and, by the peeved expression she wore, she wasn't happy about it. She was even tapping her heeled shoe against the cobblestones in an exaggerated manner. Lucky for her, she just missed the large pile of dung and sick that littered much of this back alley.

I followed behind Jack, too lost in thought to hurry forward and match his strides. There was something about the way that he'd said 'Don't mention it'. I had the funny feeling that he wasn't talking about him helping me so that I didn't fall. It was much more than that.

Honestly, there was so much I wanted to ask him and I hoped I'd get another chance. There was still the matter of why exactly Jack felt so guilty, so at fault about Sarah's abduction. I recognized his look; the dark look in his eyes reminded me of the time when Jack turned scab and even he couldn't find it in himself to face the rest of us. Why, though, was he trying to take it all on himself? Was there something more to this?

Then there was that Rosamund girl. She knew Jack, that much was clear. But how? And why was he so hesitant to meet her at Bottle Alley? At least, of that, I was certain—there was no doubt in my mind that she was the girl that Racetrack had mentioned back at Duane Street. And I can't say I liked the girl—her looks were nice, admittedly, but not her personality—but it seemed that his distaste for her went even further than that.

I didn't know and I just added that to the ever growing list of things that I was unsure of. I could feel my own lips curve down in a disappointed and dejected frown. I hated not knowing the answer to any given question.

But there was nothing I could do just then. The set of his jaw and the foreboding look in his eyes warned me against pursuing any of my questions; his flippant yet careful words just echoed that warning. Jack could lie with the best of them but his secret keeping skills could rival Teller's.

I allowed myself a small huff before gritting my teeth and stepping down on my feet. The numbness held; the pain was faint if constant. I didn't have to step lightly, though, and I half-walked, half-jogged until I was at Jack's side again. It was only a couple more feet until we'd met up with Teller again.

She snorted and shook her head. "Took ya long enough," she muttered.

Jack didn't say anything to her in response so I didn't either. I don't think we were expected to; Teller's sniping was just a way for her to get over her earlier upset. Instead I busied myself with looking at the street sign hanging above her head.

For reasons I really can't explain, Bottle Alley was usually the selling spot that Mush Meyers liked to claim. As such, whenever I went selling with Jack and Les, we stayed near to the distribution center, hawking headlines close to the boxing arena when it was warm. Sometimes we'd stray down to Irving Hall and visit Jack's friend Medda. With the exception of my Jewish neighborhood, that was the extent of my downtown travels.

I had, of course, heard of Bowery Street before but, like with Madison Avenue, I wasn't quite sure how to get there. We were standing on the corner of Baxter Street right now, crossing with Bayard. From where we stood, we only had three options: we could turn right onto Bayard, turn back down Baxter or head straight up and look for another cross street.

Turning from Jack to Teller and back, I waited to see which one of them would make the first move. Before Friday, I would've been prepared to wager that Jack would be leading the way; after all this, though, I wasn't sure who wanted to make the decisions. Even though Teller was a girl, she was a street girl and she'd already proven time and time again that, at the very least, she knew where she was going.

"C'mon," she said then, waving her right hand and taking the turn. "The theatre is only two or three blocks away."

"The theatre?" I asked.

Jack nodded. "Didn't ya know what was at 46 Bowery?"

"No. Did you?"

"Well, yeah. It ain't Irving Hall or nothing, but the Bowery Theatre used to be something. Still is, if ya got the money to get in," Jack said.

I thought of the money that I had stowed deep in my trouser pocket and I knew that that wasn't anywhere close enough to buy even the cheapest of seats in the low-price gallery of the great theatre hall. Not that I thought that we would need any money to get in—considering whose company I was in, I figured one of them had a plan.

After knowing Jack for close to a year now, I still wasn't used to being the one without the plan. I'd always used my brains and my mouth to get ahead but, with Jack around, it was all too easy to let him take over. His plans were always more grandiose, more daring and, strangely enough, they always seemed to work.

And, to be honest, I was too tired to even have any sort of plan. My plan had consisted of finding Jack to give him Sarah's note, and then finding Sarah when I discovered she was in trouble. After that I wasn't really sure what I was supposed to do. I guess it was a good thing that Teller got roped into this. She was like Jack in that way; she always seemed to have a plan at the ready, too.

In that case, I decided it was time to ask something else I'd been wondering. Ever since Meggie offered up a name and an address—and Teller had seemed to know all about that person—I'd tried to figure out who it could. In the end, I knew I wouldn't really know until I asked.

So I did.

"I'm curious. Why do they call him Grampa?" I said, speaking aloud to no one in particular. Teller's frantic pace had slowed considerably ever since we met on the corner. She didn't seem so angry anymore. Maybe, if I was lucky, she would answer me.

She did, but the answer wasn't what I expected. Without even turning around, she asked, "Who?"

"The guy that Meggie told us to go to."

"Oh. Him." Teller paused for a moment. I guess she decided not to explain because she offered back a quick, "You'll see."

There was something else I couldn't understand. If we were looking for someone that both Meggie and Teller knew, and Meggie believed he was living at 46 Bowery, where exactly would we find him? Surely he wasn't actually sleeping inside the theatre?

With a confused expression and a hesitant tone, I asked Teller about that next. Again, her returning answer wasn't very helpful.

"You'll see when we get there, Dave. Now stop laggin' behind. Whenever ya open your mouth your feet slow up."

Frowning again, I kept my mouth shut as I purposely walked even faster. Maybe I was spiteful, maybe I was letting my curiosity—that blasted curiosity!—get the better of me, but I moved past Teller. For once I was the one leading us forward. I took Teller's statement to heart and kept going, passing the streets of Mulberry and Mott until the sign before us announced that we were on Bowery Street.

I wasn't sure if we were supposed to go left or right. I would be darned if I asked either one of them just then; stubbornness leading me on, I took a chance and made a left. A quick glance over my shoulder showed that Teller and Jack had followed me down Bowery. So, either I was right or the two of them were just willing to watch me make an ass out of myself. Fuming just a bit, it didn't even bother me just then that the two of them were walking side by side.

As it turned out, my choice to go left was the right one. I hadn't even gone down half the block when I spied the theatre before us. It was on the opposite side of the street, towering high above its neighboring buildings. It was a large building, very wide with these amazing pillars supporting its facade. My earlier suspicion returned full-force—no matter how big it was, there was no way someone could live inside.

I paused, facing the grand theatre, just about to cross when something snagged on the shoulder of my shirt. I felt a yank and a small tug before realizing that the hand belonged to Teller.

"Nice place, ain't it, David? But that entrance is for the ritzy folk. Us street rats have got to use another one."

The corners of Jack's mouth twitched upwards and he turned around, his hands outstretched, and added, "I ain't read a headline since Friday morning. Ya didn't think a coupla dimes could get us in there, did ya?"

Oh, great. So now they were both having fun at my expense.

"No," I shot back, growing more and more determined that I could figure this all out without their help. It was a bluff, sure, but I didn't care. As much as I hated not knowing the answer to a given question, I hated being the butt of their jokes more. "I was just looking."

"Well, come look this way," Teller smirked, her earlier humor restored entirely as she jogged right by me. In fact, she seemed positively excited. "Trust me. You'll get more of an eyeful if ya go with us than if ya got tickets down in the pits."

I wasn't sure if that was a promise or a threat. Either way, reluctant or not, I followed her.

Jack's laughter echoed behind me. I pointedly refused to turn around and look at him. Now it seemed like I was the only one in a foul mood.

I held onto my grudge as Teller brought us down Bowery before ducking down a nearly hidden side street. This part of town was a far cry from Bottle Alley and the old Mulberry Bend; I could hardly believe that only a handful of blocks separated the seedy alleyway to the theatre district. At the very least, the smell was better.

Of course, that was only when you consider the front of Bowery Street. After cutting through the side street, the three of us emerged in the back. Crates and cartons and garbage of all kinds filled the road; the stink, while not so bad, returned enough that my nose began to burn again. Sleepers and squatters could be found in each corner and I wondered if that was what Meggie had meant when she said that this Grampa fellow lived at 46 Bowery.

Teller, I noticed, did not make eye contact with anybody on the street. With a little more force than was necessary, she pushed past a hanging sheet that was draped over a thick piece of twine. Too slow to react, the hanging laundry slapped me in the face, adding the stench of mildew and sweat to my already overloaded senses. I swallowed a gag—the noise came out more like a muffled snort—and I could hear the reprise of Jack's barely stifled laughter.

I guess it was better than his moping. I just wished he'd find something—or someone—else to laugh at.

If Teller noticed the mild path of destruction she left in her wake, she didn't acknowledge it. She kept her head straight, eyes forward, and her mouth shut. I couldn't tell if she was avoiding anyone or so intent on finding her street rat's entrance that she didn't pay any attention to anything else.

It must have been the second one because, when she stopped in front of a small door, she turned on us and gestured openly at the gnarled wood. That same uneven grin was on her face; a touch of pride was tucked in the curve of her smile.

"Here we are, David, the common street rat's entrance. Admission fee: no charge."

* * *

Author's Note: _Poor David. He's really learning a lot more about the world around him and I don't think a lot of it agrees with him. It's a pity a lot of his newfound street smarts slipped away when he went back to school. Hopefully he'll pull on his cap, unbutton his stuffy button-down and start thinking like a real streetbred newsie before long. I think Sarah's rescue might just depend upon it ;)_

_-- stress, 01.18.09_


	10. In Which a Labyrinth is Navigated

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

Following her gesture, I got a good look at the door. There was a small, roughly-hewed handle sticking out of the left side and a peephole the size of a nickel in the center. Without a single note, letter or sign where this door led to, I saw that the brick wall it was stuck to had no windows or decorations. It wasn't attached to the actual back entrance to the Bowery Theatre, as far as I could tell; since the large structure was still a half a block away from where we were, I couldn't figure where exactly this door could bring us.

Still, I'd come too far to start doubting Teller now. If I did, it was only one step to jumping to conclusions that she was doing all this because she was acting for the Sparrow. I needed to believe her. Just like I'd finally accepted Jack's betrayal and subsequent return to the newsies, I had to accept that Teller really wanted to help me.

She seemed sure of herself as she moved forward and, instead of reaching directly for the handle, formed a tight fist and knocked three times against the wood. The sound echoed as if she'd tapped against flimsy, hollow wood. But the door held strong and it wasn't more than a minute before someone answered.

It was a man, very short and very fat. He was balding, the few strands of black hair he had left had been combed over the front to hide part of his shiny head. It didn't do a very good job; in my opinion, he would have been better off buying a nice derby instead. It took me a second to notice that his features were exaggerated, and another before I realized that the reason behind that was that he was heavily made-up.

Unless he was some sort of queer bird, he had to be one of the theatre's performers. At least, that's what I hoped. No decent man could be that heavy and wear ladies powder unless he was being paid to do it and paid well enough.

I knew I was staring at him but he didn't have eyes for me and Jack. I'm not even sure he saw us. We were standing off to the side, waiting to see what Teller would do. She was the one who had knocked on the door—and she was the one who the funny looking man addressed.

His eyes widened when he saw her; his eyebrows, I saw, were drawn on with pencil. Holding one of his thick, pudgy hands out towards her, he began to speak. I think he was asking her who she was or what was doing at the door but I couldn't be sure. Every word he said sounded like gibberish to me. I couldn't understand any of it.

For just a second I thought that Teller might know what he was saying. I think I might've fallen over in surprise if it turned out that, in addition to her habit of knowing about everything and finding her way all over Manhattan, she could speak this language. Italian, I think it was. He was dark-skinned enough to be a wop, and only a real foreigner would wear make-up like that.

However, as neat as Teller was, she didn't understand anything that I didn't. She waited until he stopped in his rambling before shaking her head and saying clearly, "I'm lookin' for a man called Shaunassey." She paused and then repeated, even more slowly, "Shau-nas-sey." She gestured inside the open door with her pointer finger. "Is he here?"

It seemed that the man didn't understand English anymore than we understood what he spoke. Teller's question ignited another round of heated rambling. Like Les had a habit of doing when he was excited, the man waved his hands energetically as he talked.

I was just about to suggest that we wait until he finished his speech and had gone back inside before knocking again and hoping that a native speaker answered next when I actually made out something in between the fluid and foreign sounds. Clear as a bell, the man mentioned the same name that Teller had asked for. Though the three syllables sounded awkward and unfamiliar with the man's accent, there was no denying that he had repeated the name back to her.

Teller interrupted him by holding her hand up, her palm facing him. "Shaunassey? In there?" Using a crude type of sign language, she reached by the man and touched the open door with her hand before pointing past him.

"_S__ì_," the man said happily, nodding his head. I could only assume that he meant yes. But the smile he was wearing when the two of them had found a way to understand each other disappeared suddenly. He shook his head then and said something else in his strange tongue. He pointed at Teller, then at me and Jack, and shook his head again. His hand was on the door and, as he stepped back into the darkened entrance, I could see that he wasn't planning on letting us in.

I almost sighed out loud. We had come all this way, looking for Meggie's friend, and now we were going to be kept from our only lead because we couldn't understand a performer's gibberish. It was ridiculous!

But then Teller surprised me for what seemed like the hundredth time. She shot out her left hand, settling it on the man's fleshy wrist. Without saying anything else herself, Teller brought her right hand purposely to her throat, placing the tip of her pointer finger just below her jaw line and slowly tracing an invisible line until her finger was resting against the base of her neck.

The man watched her little act with an interested and curious eye. When she was done—and I stood there myself, gaping like an idiot—he nodded his head and stepped aside leaving the door open and inviting. "_Entrato_," he said, his voice much more welcoming than it had been before.

I didn't know what it was that he said but Teller took it as we were supposed to go inside. She waved behind her at us, gesturing for me and Jack to follow her. We did, me hurrying in before Jack. The strange, fat man waited until all three of us were safe inside the slightly dark and very narrow entryway before shutting the door after him. I heard the small _click _of a lock. It was a good thing she hadn't tried the door instead of knocking—it wouldn't have worked even if she had.

The man squeezed past us so that he was in the lead. "_Questo senso_."

The entryway that we were in was short and led into a wide hallway. Candlelight flooded the back way, presenting us with light before our eyes got too used to the dark. We turned left almost immediately and I wondered about that. If my sense of direction was still in tact, then we were heading in the direction of the Bowery Theatre. Maybe we really were going to find our way to the great theatre.

Or maybe not. We didn't walk near enough in that direction for us to reach the theatre. In fact, the funny little man only took us down one more hallway before he made a series of short turns, navigating this strange labyrinth. Sometime around the second turn I noticed boxes similar to the ones that littered the outside alley; the boxes were filled to the brim and overflowing with elaborate fabrics and props from what I could see.

Smoke filled the air, strong smoke from tobacco rather than the candles, and I could see that a doorway here and there might explain away the smell. There were people back here. I could hear plenty of music and lots of voices and even snatches of even stranger languages than our guide's but we didn't see anyone else. Not yet, anyway.

We were brought to one particular door in the back of a really smoky hall. The man, slightly out of breath from the fast pace he'd waddled, pointed at it and said, in that same, awful accent of his, "_Signor_ Shaunassey, _signorina_."

"Yeah, thanks."

He seemed to hear her brusque tone and understand that she had no more use for him. He bowed his head just a little—I saw him do it out of the corner of my eye and wondered what made his attitude change so much—before hurrying away.

It was a little odd. Teller had known somehow—or had been cautious enough—to knock on the back door outside. Now, though, she didn't waste any time with those niceties. After sizing up the door, she grabbed the handle, gave it a quick turn and shoved.

Jack entered right behind her but, I have to admit, I lingered for a moment. When I heard a short cry followed by some very creative cursing I knew I had made the right choice. But I couldn't linger anymore. The cry undoubtedly came from a girl—what if it was Teller who was hollering?

It wasn't.

Rushing in right behind Jack, I arrived just in time to see a young women with hair as red as Medda's hurrying to cover herself up. She'd been sitting on the small cot in the corner of a very cramped, very cluttered room. One quick glance before I did the decent, gentlemanly thing and looked away revealed that she was in an extremely skimpy costume. It most definitely wasn't her underclothes, thank goodness, but the lace, frills, and feathers left little to the imagination.

The room was dark, only a single oil lamp giving off any light. Considering the state of dress of the woman, I decided that that had been done on purpose. Still, the room wasn't so dark that I couldn't see the fifth person making this tiny room even smaller.

He was a big man, tall and wide though he wasn't anywhere near as round as the foreigner who'd opened the door; he must've been the man cursing because he was only half-dressed, his slacks on but his shirt missing. He was actually a very good shape, healthy, with muscles honed from some sort of hard labor. I couldn't be sure but he looked much older than me and Jack. Going by his size, the thick dark beard he wore and the wrinkles surrounding his green eyes, I'd say he couldn't be any less than thirty years old.

Was this man the Grampa we were looking for?

His cursing has stopped—the young woman just whimpered from her place on the cot—and he was staring openly at Teller. There was a strange expression on his face, surprise mingled with sudden amusement. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.

Teller was the first one to say anything. As far as I could tell she hadn't even batted an eyelash to find the man this way. She was wearing her crooked grin as she nodded over at him. "Grampa. Didn't think you'd be so busy. I might've knocked otherwise."

Grampa looked back at Teller and there was no doubt about it—he was working hard to hide his growing smile. He shook one of his fingers at her before turning to his red-haired companion. "C'mon, me girl. Time to go," he said, his voice thick with the strongest Irish brogue I'd ever heard. It was a relief to know he could speak English—I'd wondered—but his accent was so much that I only just managed to make out what he said.

The girl got up at once, drawing a thin, dingy robe around her as she did. She sent a fierce glare in Teller's direction and then, when Teller just ignored her hostility, she looked back at Grampa. Simpering, she murmured something in another language. It was the same one from before, too.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he shook his head again. "No, no, nothin' like that. Now, go on. I'll come a lookin' for ya later."

There was no mistaking the pout she wore but she did what she was told and left. However, she did make time to stop in the doorway and sniff loudly at Teller, her nose in the air and color still in her cheeks.

Teller just rolled her eyes.

Grampa had followed the girl to the door, making sure to close it behind her. I guess he didn't want anyone to see or overhear what he was doing in his room. Then once he had he held his arms out, waving them up and down as he eyed Teller. His wide grin had blossomed, spreading out over his entire face. "Well I'll be! If it isn't little miss… now what was that fancy name ya took to callin' yourself, lassie?"

"It's Teller. And ya know how much I hate it when ya call me 'lassie', _Shaunassey_."

It was a jibe, a reminder that a lot of people had a different name that they preferred but he ignored it. His smile never faltered as he ran one of his oversized hands through his thick mess of black curls.

"Teller, that's right! Aye and if it hasn't been far too long."

She opened her mouth to say something in response but the man held up his finger and shook his head. "Uh-uh. First things first and seein' how it was you who found me, I'll go first." He took that chance to squeeze back past us so that he could sit down on his disheveled cot. The springs squeaked and the thin mattress sagged under his weight as he spread his legs apart and rested his forearms on his thighs. Once he was comfortable he said, "So how _did _ya find me?"

"Simple enough. I knocked at the back door and some short, fat Italian man let us in."

"Ah, Giuseppe. He's a good man. A little funny in his ways and don't know a lick o' English, but he's got a keen eye and a good head. Knows when to let someone in—well, usually." He scratched his thick beard and tilted his head in Teller's direction. Nodding at her, he said, "And what did you tell him to let you riffraff in?"

"That Meggie sent us."

He looked thoughtful, his pointer finger tapping his chin for a moment, but then he laughed, a real obnoxious barking sound. "Aye and that would do it. He's got a sure soft spot for the little Songbird."

"Don't most people?"

"You would know if anyone did."

I didn't understand exactly what he might've meant by that but Teller seemed to get the message. For just a moment she looked surprised, stunned almost, but then she blinked and shook her head. "You're right, old man. It's been a long time."

"But perhaps not long enough."

Grampa's cryptic remarks seemed to be getting the better of Teller. She was flustered, obviously uncomfortable about something—yet she seemed to know this man very well. I didn't get it. Who was this man? Was he going to help us or not?

She was stumbling, not quite sure how to answer to his comment. In the end she decided to change the subject entirely. As if suddenly remembering any manners she might have, Teller turned slightly so that she could point behind her at me and Jack.

"Grampa, this is Jack—"

"Kelly, yeah?"

Jack was surprised to hear Grampa interrupt Teller with his chosen surname. He gave a little start before taking one step forward and, jutting his chin out a little more defiantly than necessary, saying, "Yeah."

"I heard of ya. Made a bit of a name for yourself, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Me dad knew your pop," Grampa said conversationally, waving one of his hands flippantly. But his green eyes were small and shrewd in the candlelight as he added, "Tis is a shame he's rottin' away in Sing Sing."

That rattled Jack. I wasn't surprised, either. Any mention of his family that he had but didn't have was enough to set him on edge. His eyes flashed angrily, his handsome face twisted in an angry sneer. He took another step forward, clench fists rising up higher and higher. "What the hell do you know about my father?"

"Enough, boyo. Enough."

I really hoped that Jack didn't hit the man. Grampa was double the size of either of the Delancey brothers that Jack used to taunt and fight. Jack would have speed on his side but I would definitely give the advantage to the big Irish brute. And a good shiner didn't suit Jack's coloring at all.

Not to mention the fact that, if Jack attacked him like he threatened to do, there was a pretty good chance that Grampa might not offer us any of his help.

* * *

Author's Note: _This was an interesting chapter for me to write. I'm not sure if I like Grampa or not yet. Maybe, by the end of the next scene, I'll know ;) I wonder what you guys think about him..._

_-- stress, 01.28.09_


	11. In Which a Myth or Two is Mentioned

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

"Jack..."

Teller placed her hand on Jack's arm—whether it was in sympathy or a warning, I couldn't tell—but he huffed and shook it off. He was breathing heavily, his frayed temper already fragile as it was, but he kept his mouth shut. I think he remembered how important this was, just how much was at stake.

I decided that I should probably jump in and help so, in an attempt to draw his attention away from Jack—and give Jack a little more time to cool down—I turned to Grampa and asked, "Just where are we exactly?"

He looked at me as if seeing me standing there for the first time. Now that he was done baiting Jack, I guess it was my turn. "I take it you've never been this way before, have ya?"

Was it really that obvious? "No," I said, more harshly than I meant to, "I haven't."

"Then you're in luck!" Grampa roared, spreading his arms wide as he laughed loudly. His response and his glee were so overwhelming, so _sudden_, that I had to take a step back. He seemed to be filling up more than half the room alone. "The theatre life, boyo, it's a grand life and there ain't no theatre grander than the Bowery Theatre. It's seen it all. Irish plays, Yiddish theatre, and even now Italian vaudeville. And it's like a beautiful phoenix. Been burned down so many times but it always rises up from the ashes, bigger and better than before."

Teller just nodded but Jack, still visibly angry and obviously hesitant to join in on the conversation, muttered to me out of the side of his mouth. "Phoenix? What the hell's a phoenix?"

I could feel my brow furrowing as I tried to remember where I'd heard that word before. And then I got it. "It's a bird," I told him, almost scowling. A bird—_figures_. "I learned about them in lessons. The phoenix is a bird in mythology that, when it dies, it bursts into flames. But it's not really dead because it is reborn from its own ashes."

"Aye and you're absolutely right," Grampa said, impressed. "And it's a fittin' name, too, for the place I've come to roost in. Wouldn't ye say so, Teller?"

"Yeah, sure. But you know and I know that this ain't actually part of the theatre," Teller pointed out smugly. Something about the way she said that peaked my interest. I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't anything new to her, that she'd been here before.

"No, it's not. And to answer your question, boyo," he said, glancing at me again, "this part used to be an old tavern and a cattle market. Backstage keeps rooms for the stagehands and the chorus performers… not the big names, no, they get the Waldorf… and then a couple o' boarders or two. Me dad, he used to pull the curtains and set the scene for the theatre when he was a lad, back when this was an Irish place. The Italians, it ain't the same with them, but they're pretty obligin' when a fella needs a place to stay."

"And all the chorus girls don't hurt either, huh?"

Grampa laughed that strange deep laugh he had. The entire cot seemed to shake with the short, barking blasts. "Charmin' as ever, me girl. Don't ya ever change?"

"Never," she declared defiantly.

"Then I'm glad." He shook his head, grinning wryly as he stood up and gestured towards the three of us. "Well, I'm sure you ain't here to blarney about the old days or show off your young man—" he paused there, nodding over at me in particular. Before I'd even worked out what he meant I could feel my face heating up, "—so why don't ya tell me what you're doin' my way. 'Specially since you've already gone to see dear Meggie first."

Teller lost a little bit of her swagger then as the truth behind our visit was remembered. After Jack had shaken her hand off his shoulder she'd kept it at her side; she was tapping her fingers anxiously against the patched pocket of her threadbare skirt. A small frown and a tiny shrug as she pointedly looked past Grampa, all humor gone, told him much more of our intent than any words could ever do.

Picking up on her shift in mood, his good mood and cheer vanished almost immediately. Mirroring her frown, he rubbed his large hand over his face. Grampa sighed and, in that one sound, he looked much older than he had before. "C'mon now, Teller. Don't say it's got anything to do with _him_."

"I wouldn't be here if it didn't."

"Why not? Don't you enjoy me company?"

Grampa was the kind of man you couldn't keep down for long. Maybe he was trying to make light of the situation—that, or trying to pretend there wasn't a situation at all—because his smile was back in place. It was strained but it was there—and so were the jokes.

Even Teller's frown wavered, the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly. "Not as much as others," she teased. From the way she said it, I don't think I was alone in remembering the half-naked redheaded woman who was in the room with Grampa when we first arrived.

The man didn't even have the decency to look ashamed at her outright implications. With a loud bark that seemed to shake the room, he laughed until Teller's next words wiped the smile clean off his face.

"Grampa, I… we need your help."

And then he was serious, all thoughts of cheap performing girls gone from his mind. He was scratching his chin again, absently plucking the dark, coarse hairs of his beard. "Ya know I don't do that anymore," he said at last.

"Yeah, and I know that ya haven't gone as underground as you'd like everyone to think."

"Oh, ya know, do ye?"

"How else do you explain yourself? The _Bowery_, Grampa? And Meggie?" She scoffed, suddenly every inch of the spitfire I knew she could be. "You haven't moved more than five blocks away in all this time. There's no way ya lost touch with all the fellas."

"No," he retorted, "just the ones at the top."

"Because ya turned yellow and turned tail on 'em," Teller snapped, her hands on her hips. Like a mother scolding her child, she looked down on Grampa with severity in her dark blue eyes. "So what does that mean anyway? Ya ain't gonna help? Ya ain't gonna help _me_, Shaunassey?"

That did it. Whether it was the way her voice cracked or just the use of his name, Teller's lecture brought about the most sheepish, guilty look to ever cross his face. Folding his arms over his barrel-sized chest, Grampa leaned back into his cot. He was giving in. "I might've… well, the stagehands _do_ like to talk."

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Yeah, and they ain't the only ones."

If he heard her mutterings, he ignored her. "The Sparrow, eh? You try to forget but he's one stubborn bastard who won't let ya. I've been told he was back around again but I didn't want to believe it. They say he's got some pretty little bird in tow with him, too, one he's taken to callin' the Lark."

"The Lark?" I asked hopefully. It sounded like the Sparrow already had a girl on his arm. Maybe he wasn't really after Sarah—maybe this was all a big misunderstanding. Maybe…

Grampa's beady eyes met mine and, I swear, there was pity in them. "I'd drop that grin, young Davey, if I was you. The Lark, she's your sister."

I didn't really register what he meant at first. I got that we were—unfortunately—talking about Sarah, and it irked me when I finally figured what the Sparrow's nickname for her added up to. Like his name, and the pet name he had for Meggie, the Sparrow had given my sister a name of her own that matched his; a lark, another small, brown bird like a sparrow, with a sweet cry and a stubborn streak. It suited Sarah, and I had to admit that it was a relief to learn that, for sure, Sarah was with him; that, and that Sarah wasn't considered a meadowlark like Medda Larkson.

With all that on my mind, it never occurred to me to wonder just how Grampa knew who Sarah was, or how she was my sister. He even knew my name! Teller hadn't been able to introduce me on account of Jack's outburst but somehow he knew. He knew my name and he knew my sister—

—and Teller didn't look surprised in the least.

"Why don't you tell us something we don't know? The Sparrow's been back for ages now, long enough to pick out the Jacobs girl as his next pet. He didn't make his move until Friday," she told him. It was odd, hearing Teller talk about it all so calmly. Just being reminded made me itch to go back outside and recklessly continue my search. Only a touch of good sense—and an uncertainty of how to navigate the labyrinth to go back outside—kept me still as I listened to Teller.

"It's Sunday now," she was saying. "Three days and there hasn't been nothin' from him but his sign and a tossed rock. It ain't like him to hide, and I can't find him. That's why I'm here, that's why I went after Meggie. I promised I'd help Dave and I mean to."

Grampa absorbed everything she had to say, nodding to himself as he did. He was quiet for a minute before he held out one of his hands. "What do you want me to do?"

"Tell me where he is."

He sighed, letting his hand drop on the cot. "I can't tell ya that."

"Why not?" asked Jack, fire in his voice. He'd been biding his time, quiet as he listened to everything Teller and Grampa had to say. But now that the conversation had been steered towards a topic he cared about himself—namely Sarah and her capture by the Sparrow—he didn't feel the need to stand off to the side anymore. "Ya just told Teller you was gonna help. Goin' back on your word?" He was as riled up as me now.

"No, boyo." Grampa shook his head, not sure if he should be offended or amused by Jack's attitude. "I can't tell ya 'cause I don't know meself."

"Oh." Jack rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, as sheepish now as Grampa had been after Teller's scolding. "I knew that."

Teller rolled her eyes. She wasn't impressed at the way Jack just jumped in there; after telling everything to her old friend, I think she wanted to be the one to get the information out of him. I noticed her upset and I remembered what Jack had told me when we were standing together outside of Bottle Alley. Maybe the two of them really didn't get on like that. I'd been so preoccupied by the obviously strained relationship between Teller and Spot that I never paid much attention—with the exception of their proximity—to the way they regarded each other.

"I don't get it," Teller said roughly, her voice gruff and thick with pent up frustration. "Meggie sent us your way after Racetrack Higgins told us to see her. I never had this much trouble trackin' him down before. Why doesn't anyone know where to find the Sparrow?"

If I didn't think Teller might slap me for my forwardness, I might've just kissed her for her question. She'd been able to put into words the one thing that was really nagging me. Why couldn't we find him? He had to be somewhere… but where?

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, lassie."

She scowled at the name again but didn't say anything. She stared at Grampa instead, her eyes narrowed sharply as she waited for him to continue.

He got the hint.

"If you want to find the Sparrow… find him before he comes a lookin' for you, I mean… you're gonna have to go after the Pigeon first."

"The Pigeon?" Jack said, almost disbelievingly. For the only time since we entered Grampa's room, Jack was wearing that cocky grin of his. "I thought he was a myth."

The grin was short-lived as Grampa countered with a knowing smirk. "That's what a lot of folks say about the Sparrow."

Somehow I should've expected this. Teller was right when she said everyone sends us to someone else—now Grampa was doing it, too. And who was it this time? The Pigeon? First there was the Sparrow, Songbird, the Lark and now this? The _Pigeon_? These bird names were beginning to get to me. And to think I used to regard all of the newsies' nicknames as something ridiculous. I'd never secretly snicker at Snoddy's name again after this!

This new information seemed to rattle Teller. She blinked a few times, almost as if she wasn't sure what she had heard him say. Letting her long braid rest over her right shoulder, she shook her head. "Why would the Pigeon know where the Sparrow was? And, even if he _did_, why would he tell us?"

"I think you misunderstood. I don't think the Pigeon knows anymore than you do," Grampa explained, his grin suddenly mischievous , "but, before long, the Sparrow'll be where the Pigeon is."

"Why's that?"

"From what I've heard, he's gunnin' for the Pigeon. The Jacobs lad," he said, nodding over at me. I kept my face straight, trying to hide the discomfort his look gave me, "he's playin' second fiddle right now. The Sparrrow's got all his birdies out lookin' for the Pigeon. They way I figure it, ya get to the Pigeon first, you'll meet up with he Sparrow sooner or later."

"Ya know, for someone who doesn't live that life no more, ya sure do hear a lot."

"I still got ears, and I use 'em, too. 'Course I still hear some things, Teller, me girl. Don't you?"

"No." Teller turned her head slightly to her left, shooting me a quick and uneasy look before turning back to shrug at Grampa. "Not anymore."

I didn't like the way that Teller looked at me then, either.

The room went quiet, nobody having anything to say. Well, no, that wasn't true. As awkward and as tense a mood as ever had settled over us all after Grampa made his pronouncement—even though I couldn't really explain why it hit it us all that way—and only a sharp jab in my side courtesy of Jack's elbow brought my attention around.

Frowning, I lifted my head up, making sure to keep my eyes away from both Grampa and Teller. I could feel the weight of their eyes on me and I wished I didn't. Exhaustion crept up on me as I could still hear Grampa's words ringing in my ear.

"So, the Pigeon, huh?" Jack asked, speaking my thoughts out loud. Looking at me out of the corner of his eye, his voice sounded as tired as I suddenly felt.

I couldn't help it. I groaned out loud.

Finding the Sparrow was turning out to be much harder than I ever thought.

* * *

Author's Note: _So, are we finally getting somewhere? Oh, goodness, I hope so ;)_

_-- stress, 02.12.09_


	12. In Which David Rivals Spot Conlon

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

"Now, which one of you had the chicken?"

Our conversation was interrupted by the white-haired waiter standing off to the side of our table. It took me a minute to realize that he was talking to us, and then another before I saw the plate of chicken drumsticks he was holding out in front of him. My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I was both hungry and more grateful than I had been that Teller had led us to the restaurant after leaving Bowery Street, but I couldn't bring myself to answer the waiter's question.

Besides, my nerves were too much for such a heavy meal. Like I had the last time I lunched with Teller, I was waiting for a steaming hot bowl of soup. Honestly, how long could it take to bring out a little broth and a clean spoon?

Jack already had a barely touched glass of sarsaparilla sitting before him. His mood had definitely improved since we left Grampa behind us, but he was still a far cry from the Jack Kelly I knew. Claiming he wasn't hungry, Jack had ordered a drink and that was it. He hadn't had to wait at all; he wasn't really speaking, either.

When the waiter held out the plate full of greasy, questionable meat out towards him, Jack shook his head and he shook his hand. "Ain't me."

"It's mine," offered Teller, suddenly returning her focus to what was going on at the table. I'm not sure if I was supposed to notice but, ever since I gave in and followed the two of them to Tibby's, Teller hadn't been quite… there. Her thoughts were obviously elsewhere, her dark eyes glassy as she gazed in a direction that was over Jack's head, past where we were sitting.

The waiter, a different one from the dark-haired young man who asked us what we wanted, raised his eyebrow as he spared a quick glance at Teller. I could understand just why he looked so confused, too. Teller was a girl, a thin girl, and if I hadn't seen her devour an entire bratwurst sandwich with my own eyes, I might not have thought she'd want to eat such a large order of chicken.

His eyes strayed to me and I nodded. Still looking a bit befuddled, he set the piping hot plate in front of Teller. "Enjoy, er, miss."

"Sure," Teller replied, already opening her napkin wide and setting it primly on her lap. Then, without another word to the waiter or to me and Jack, she turned her attention on her food.

I felt awkward watching her eat, especially since my soup still hadn't come out yet. There was no use in trying to continue our conversation again with Teller so preoccupied—she'd already finished half of a chicken leg since the waiter walked back towards the kitchen—so, rather than talk to Jack, I took the chance to look around me.

I wasn't so sure it was the best idea, coming back to Tibby's already. The decision, made by Jack and Teller without any input from me, had left a sour taste in my mouth. As far as I was concerned, this was where this whole thing started. Before I came down to the restaurant I'd only had a faint worry about Sarah being missing. Jack's strange behavior, followed by my talk with Rachel Harpen had only made that worry grow. And I'd met both of them there.

Tibby's wasn't as busy today as it was on Friday, probably because it was the Sabbath. There were pretty women in their church hats and Sunday best, accompanied by their whiskered gentlemen with bemused expressions. But, I noticed, of the patrons who filled up almost half of the restaurant, I didn't see a single familiar face. There were no other newsies working on an early supper at all.

I guess that was a good thing. I don't think that Jack would've wanted to be overheard and, as out last meeting in Tibby's showed, it was only too easy for nosy ears to hear too much. Teller was a prime example of that.

She was sitting next to me, facing the front of the restaurant; Jack was on the opposite side alone. Leaning over his full drink, looking at the way his reflection was distorted on the skim on the dark liquid, he wasn't glowering as much, but the cockiness that _was_ Jack was still missing. It made me even more worried now.

But not so worried that, when a third waiter finally came out with my soup and a pretty large piece of bread, my stomach didn't growl at the sight. It did. Food had been the last thing on my mind since I woke up this morning but when in Rome…

It smelled delicious, too.

I waited until the much younger waiter had sloppily placed the bowl down—the liquid splattered all over the tabletop as he did—and walked away before I pulled it closer to me. There was a haze of thin, wispy smoke rising up over the bowl; it was much too hot to eat right away and I didn't need to burn my tongue on it. Leaving the spoon on my napkin, I crossed my hands and lifted my head up so that I could appeal back to the other two.

Now that our food had arrived at the table, and I'd given Teller enough time to eat some of it, it was time to get back to the matter at hand.

Before the waiters brought our food out we had been talking about everything we knew—well, me and Teller had been. With everything that had happened since the two of us met up with Jack and Spot in Brooklyn yesterday, I'd only just realized that there was quite a lot that I hadn't had the chance to tell Jack.

Since he didn't seem to have anything to say himself, I filled the quiet myself. I spent most of the journey back through town telling him about my adventures in Midtown, and the near-miss I had in that alleyway. Teller jumped in every now and then, adding a word or explaining something that I wasn't clear on, but that was it. She actually let me talk.

Which was fine by me, I guessed. A sudden bout of nerves had settled over me as we left Grampa's. The more I talked, the less I was able to worry about our most recent clue. I didn't know what else to do. After everything we've done—it sounded like so much as I recounted it all to Jack—we were given _another _name, we were told to see someone _else_.

The Pigeon.

Jack thought he was a myth. Teller had nothing to say about him when I first asked her. And me… I'd thought there was a problem when I was supposed to be afraid of a sparrow. It was almost unbelievable that I was expected to turn to a pigeon for help now.

I shook my head slowly, exhaling as I did. "I just… I just don't know what we're supposed to do. Are you _sure_ you've never heard anything about…"

I couldn't even say it. I'd finished telling Jack everything I knew, and I hoped he did the same with me already—though I doubted it. Regardless, I needed some new direction, some kind of peace of mind. It was killing me, knowing that I was sitting inside Tibby's again, getting ready to eat a hot meal, when Sarah was… she was…

I couldn't think it, either.

Turning my head to my left, I glanced at Teller first. I was relying on her to come up with an answer, to be able to tell me where I was supposed to go next to save my sister. She'd been the one with the plan, the one with the knowledge, ever since we began. Why should it be different now?

She should know about The Pigeon, but she said she didn't. I didn't want to believe her. I think that was why I kept asking her, kept prodding her and Jack for more information than they claimed they had. Someone had to know—

—and it wasn't me.

Teller wasn't even listening to me. She hadn't been paying attention, not really, not since we'd been seated at the restaurant, but this time she had a reason besides simply being lost in her own thoughts. With the plateful of drumsticks set in front of her, she was so busy eating that she didn't even notice that I was asking her a question. The way she seemed to attack the food, the way her teeth ripped at the meat… it was as if she hadn't eaten in days.

I found myself watching her in a mixture of disgust, pity and a little bit of awe. Teller certainly had a healthy appetite. I had a funny feeling that, until there were only bones left on the plate, I wouldn't get another word out of her.

Jack was my only hope.

"What about you? Are you sure that there's nothing that you don't remember? Maybe something that you heard one of the other boy's say?"

"Sorry, Davey. I wish I could tell ya… I _want_ to get Sarah back… but The Pigeon? I always thought he was a joke, right? Someone the Sparrow said he got so he didn't have to talk about how many, uh, spies he's got roamin' 'round the city. Hell, this is the first time I even heard someone say the same without a joke or a laugh. Far as I knew, no one took the Pigeon seriously. He's a myth, like I said."

I couldn't accept that. My pride was still stinging from not knowing a thing about the Sparrow until Friday. There was so much about life on the New York streets that I didn't know, that I didn't understand—I didn't want to think that Jack could be so ignorant. I'd always thought of the Manhattan streets as his. He just had to know who the Pigeon was!

My stomach tightened at his words. I didn't think it had anything to do with being hungry anymore but, just in case, I picked my spoon back up. My soup had cooled; there was no more steam, at least. Not really paying attention to the taste, I quickly ate a few bites. It was still warm but it didn't burn.

At least that was one thing in my favor…

"What are we going to do next then?"

"I ain't got a clue. But, c'mon, Dave… where's your ideas? Don't tell me that you've gone to school all this time and ya ain't any smarter than ya were last summer."

"Trust me, Jack," I said defensively, mangling the piece of bread I was holding in my left hand. How could he expect reading, writing and arithmetic to compete with a street smart _bird_? "The schoolbooks don't teach you what to do when some hooligan runs off with your sister and refuses to give her back."

"Some education, huh? Maybe you should talk to your schoolmaster about that."

I had to give Jack some credit. He was slowly returning back to his normal self—as cocky and as irritating as he could ever be. I didn't have anything to say to his comment—nothing proper, that is—so I shoved the crumbled piece of bread into my mouth and chewed, chasing it down with some more of the thick broth.

As I ate, I saw that Teller had stopped. Busy with wiping her greasy hands on the napkin in her lap, she'd listened to my exchange with Jack without saying anything herself. But the face she was making… I knew right away that she was hiding something. I don't know how I knew, but I did. There was something she wasn't telling us.

Probably more loudly than I should have, I said, "Teller? You… you know the Sparrow. You've got to know something about the Pigeon. Who is he?"

I expected her to turn her dark glare on me and repeat that she didn't know, or maybe even swat me for being so demanding. But she didn't.

Instead, turning a very calculating look on me, she brushed a piece of thick hair that had strayed from her braid out of her eye. "What do ya want me to say, Dave? There's not much I know—"

"But you know something," I interrupted.

"I've… I've heard of the Pigeon," she admitted, "but I don't know who he is. I can't find him."

Jack's voice cut in, calmer and more rational than mine had been—not to mention a lot quieter, too. "What have you heard about him? If you got proof that he ain't just made up, then that's more than we got already."

She sighed but there was a measure of defeat in the sound. Jack had obviously struck a chord with her somehow. I don't know how he did it, but he got her to talk.

"The Pigeon, he's kinda like the right hand man for the Sparrow. The top dog… bird… you could say. I ain't sure how he does it, but he's supposed to be able to get all sorts of information, and he tells the Sparrow all 'bout it. I heard that he's so good that the Sparrow actually keeps him under wraps so that his cover ain't blown." She paused, shrugging her shoulders. "But, I told ya, I don't know where to find him. I don't even know anyone else who's even _met _him."

I had listened to Teller with a hopeful ear. It was the most information she'd offered since Bowery Street and I was really hoping that she would have suddenly remembered something that would lead us to the Pigeon. When she finished, and I knew she was done because she picked up her third piece of chicken to eat, I just stared at her. My spoonful of soup forgotten, my hand left halfway to my mouth, I said, "Are you telling us that, in order to Sarah from the Sparrow, we have to find someone… and this someone is a person that only the Sparrow knows?"

"Yeah, that's about it."

There was no missing the apologetic look that crossed her face. She looked positively guilty for having been the one to finally tell me that. It was no wonder she'd kept quiet so long.

"That's ridiculous! We can't do that. This is… this a wild goose chase," I said angrily, slamming my spoon down. The salty soup resting in the spoon splashed up at me, just missing my eye. Feeling both frustrated and slightly embarrassed at my tantrum I didn't wipe it away.

Jack took a small sip from his glass. As he set the drink back down—much smoother than I had, I noticed—there was a small curve to his lips. He was actually smirking over at me. "Don't you mean wild _sparrow _chase?"

I frowned. "Not funny, Jack."

He cocked his head at me, that funny little grin of his still in place. It was nice to see that his mood was returning at a quicker pace; I just wished he wasn't using my annoyance to fuel his amusement.

Ignoring him, I shook my head and pushed my dish away from me. My hunger had vanished entirely. "I don't get it," I fumed, angry at how powerless I was. I was angry and, stupidly, I took it out on Teller. "You go from telling us that you don't know anything to admitting you know something about this Pigeon person. How do I know that there isn't more that you're _not _telling me?"

She reeled away from me, jerking back in her seat as if I'd slapped her. A hurt look flashed across her face but was replaced immediately by one of indignation. Those familiarly blazing dark eyes were glaring daggers at me but I was too incensed myself to care.

"What are ya sayin'?"

Spot's words from yesterday and this morning filtered in through my ears and, without stopping to think about it, I snapped. "You're the spy, Teller. Why don't you tell me?"

I'd gone too far. Just the way her mouth dropped open at my words, and I knew I'd gone too far.

"Oh, Davey…"

Jack's mumbled words didn't help, either.

She didn't remain stunned for long. It took her a few seconds to regroup but, when she did, I knew I was in for it. Leaning back in my seat, I braced myself for it.

"I told ya before, it ain't like that! The Sparrow and me… I was just another one of his precious little birdies. I heard something, I told him what I heard. That's all. What else do you want from me? Do ya even know what I've given up to help you, David? I've never met your Sarah… hell, I didn't know you until Friday… and I've done everything I could to help you! I've talked to my old friends, I've taken you all around the damn city, I even gave you money for your lodgin' in Midtown. I haven't earned a dime myself in days, and I ain't even been sleepin' much. And this is how you say thanks? By accusin' me of holdin' out on ya?" She huffed, the sound much louder than the furious hiss, before she sneered. "You're as much a bum as Conlon, ya know that?"

When Teller had finished, I heard Jack let out a small whistle that made my guilt even worse. It was bad enough that Teller had—and rightfully, I realized with a grimace—scolded me and Jack had heard her do it; it was even worse that he felt bad for me about it.

I held my hands out in a peaceful gesture. "Teller… I didn't mean it. Honest." She snorted, her arms crossed over her chest. I tried again. "It's just… I don't know. I'm tired, too, and I'm frustrated. I don't know what to do for my sister anymore and… it's like, after everything we've done, it was for nothing. And it's not like I think you know more than you're saying, it's that I want to _believe_ that you do. Because, if you do, then I have hope." I shook my head, feeling stupid for explaining with both Jack and the whole of Tibby's as an audience.

Teller's upset expression seemed to melt right off of her face until she was looking at me with something like curiosity.

"Ya know what? Don't worry about it," she said frostily. I didn't know what was worse: the cold attitude or the warm fury.

After wiping her hands rather roughly against her stained napkin, Teller reached into the front pocket of her skirt and pulled out a handful of coins. She didn't bother to count them; she just threw them into the center of the table. "That's for my chicken. I'll see ya later."

"Where are you goin', Teller?" Jack said, asking her before I could. I was a bit relieved—I had the feeling that, if I said the wrong thing again, she just might bite my head off for real this time.

"I'm going to… I'm gonna head off to Bottle Alley for the night. Maybe I can… I don't know… talk to Meggie again." She suddenly sounded exhausted and, when I thought about how tired I'd been, I felt like a selfish fool for never realizing how this adventure must be affecting her. "I'll catch my bunk there and meet up with you fellas tomorrow."

I thought the idea of Teller going back to Bottle Alley to talk to Meggie was a good one, especially since I didn't have to go back there with her. And, while it would be strange to have her away for so long—I really had grown used to her bring there—it was probably a good idea for her to go off on her own for a little bit.

However, something she said made me stop and stare at her. "Your bunk? You lodge there?" I purposely tried to sound curious over accusing. Teller's scolding had made me feel like a scoundrel; I didn't want to give her an excuse to do it again.

"Didn't I tell ya?" she asked, a touch distracted. But at least she wasn't angry.

"No," I said carefully, "I don't think you did."

"No matter. There's a lot of places I stay at. It's just one of them, just like that place in Midtown I know of." She got up from her chair quickly, the squeak of the chair being pushed against the floor sending chills down my spine. Pausing at the side of the table, I think she was daring either me or Jack to stop her from going. We didn't—I wasn't that foolish—and she continued, "So, I guess I'll meet you tomorrow, right? Bright and early at your place?"

I cleared my throat, trying to fight back the guilt I was feeling. I'd been thinking about this before, when we were heading off to Tibby's together, and I couldn't see anyway around it. I couldn't keep up with the lies anymore. "Actually—"

"I know, Dave. I was talkin' 'bout Duane Street. Tomorrow morning?"

"Um, yeah. Okay," I said, my surprise written all over my face.

How did she know I wasn't planning on returning home tonight?

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, that was fun. I've been waiting to see what would happen when David finally bit off more than he could chew and had a little hissy fit. I gotta give him credit -- I think I would've given in that first day and thrown a temper tantrum. At least it took him until Sunday to finally realize how hopeless his quest is ;) Or is it? Hmm... I guess you're gonna have to wait for the conclusion of this story (only 2-3 more chapters to go) to see what happens next to our poor trio..._

_-- stress, 03.01.09_


	13. In Which Jack Lies Again

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

"So, was she right?"

I was so busy gathering together the coins that Teller had tossed absently into the center of the table that I barely noticed that Jack had said anything to me at all. Not that I was surprised—my ears were still buzzing from Teller's scolding, and my mind was still racing from her parting words. And, besides, I'd gotten used to Jack's quiet. I hadn't expected him to start talking again.

The white-haired waiter had dropped off the bill almost immediately after Teller had stood up from the table and left. I got the impression that he'd been waiting for our table to empty, that he'd expected us to try to run out on the bill. He'd seemed taken aback to discover me and Jack—and a handful of good coins—still sitting there. In a show of good faith, he left the bill behind him and scurried off to another table.

Maybe because I was still feeling shameful for having had to borrow money from Teller on Friday, I wanted to prove to this old man that I was more than capable of paying for a simple meal. Grabbing the spilt coins, I shoved them in my left pocket before taking out the money I'd brought from home this morning; I would return her money the first minute I was able to.

I was counting out my money now, picking the tarnished nickels out from between the coppers. I was still ignoring Jack—accidentally, of course—and it took him clinking his half-empty glass against the tabletop before he caught my focus.

"So," he said again, and this time I heard him clearly, "was she right?"

"About what, Jack?"

"You know. 'Bout headin' down to the lodgin' house?"

"Um, yeah…" I told him, purposely turning my attention back to the task at hand. After counting out enough money to pay for supper, I set the bill down on the table and placed the coins in a pile next to it. I could still feel his questioning gaze on my profile and I knew he wasn't going to let this go without a real answer. I sighed. "I guess I thought it would be for the best."

"Ya ain't goin' home? Why?"

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said sarcastically. "Maybe 'cause ya got a mom and a pops who loves ya, and a kid brother who worships ya? How 'bout a hot supper whenever ya want it, and a good, sturdy roof over your head?" Huffing, Jack picked up his glass. He downed the murky contents in three gulps before setting it roughly down. "I don't know, Dave, why do you think ya shouldn't go home?"

The rush of anger I'd felt at Teller left me weary; I didn't think I had the strength to argue with him now, too.

"Because of Sarah," I told him, pushing my seat back and getting up from the table. "I'm not like you, Jack. I don't like to lie. And I don't want to keep looking into my mother's eyes and tell her that Sarah is all right when I don't even know if it's true. I'm not going back until she's going back with me."

For just a moment I had to wonder if Jack really cared about Sarah's abduction by the wretched Sparrow, but then I got a good look at him. His whole face seemed to darken as I mention my sister. Any swagger or good mood he'd picked up was gone like that—it was gone when he started asking me about my plans.

But then he exhaled and shrugged his shoulders. "I was just wonderin'. Kloppman'll let you in 'cause he knows ya, and I'll speak up for ya if ya want, but… ya can't run from this. That's all I'm sayin'."

Reminded of Meggie's advice and her condescending tone, I could myself frown. "I'm not running from anything. If you haven't noticed, I'm doing everything I can to find the Sparrow and get my sister back. Just because I don't want to keep up with the lies, it doesn't make me a coward."

"I never said ya were."

"No, but that's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

"Shit, Dave. Even I don't know what the hell I'm thinkin' right now."

I could see the waiter bobbing through the tables, hurrying over to pick up the money and the bill. In the haze of my renewed anger, I noticed that Jack hadn't bothered to add his pennies to the pile; it was a good thing I'd anticipated that and paid for him already. Sighing, I decided it wasn't worth continuing this conversation with the waiter standing there. It was bad enough half of Tibby's heard Teller yelling at me—I didn't need to get into another fight with Jack.

Before I could say anything else to Jack, he was already climbing out of his seat. "Come on. If you're goin', we better get started. Curfew ain't for a coupla hours yet but we gotta make sure we save you a bunk."

Wordlessly, I nodded and followed him out of the restaurant. The last thing I needed was a repeat of Friday night. I knew most of the boys on Duane Street—there was no way they would offer up a bunk, or let me steal one away if it wasn't free. And, unlike Alfie, I had the feeling that Jack would be the one pushing me onto the floor himself.

--

It felt very strange for me, purposely making the wrong turn out of Tibby's. My feet were so used to going one way—going _home_—that I resigned myself to acting like Jack's puppy now. Just like I had done with Teller, I let him lead the way so that I didn't have to think about where we were going.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for Mama to get worried. Since I'd left without warning this morning and hadn't stopped back in all day, I was betting she was already sick with grief over my disappearance now.

I hated knowing that I was doing this to her. The only way I was able to convince myself to follow my instinct and keep following Jack was to ask myself how worried and upset she would be if Sarah _never_ came back.

I kept moving.

Jack didn't as fast as Teller had. She always seemed to be in a rush—except, I remembered, when we were in Brooklyn looking Jack and Spot—and it was nice to be able to lag behind his sauntering pace. I was still so very tired and I couldn't wait until we made it to Duane Street. It was only just starting to get dark out; with any luck I'd be able to grab a bunk and be asleep before my guilt made me any more restless.

He didn't walk all that quickly but, when I found that half of a block had appeared between us without me noticing it, I realized I was slowing down more and more. By the time we arrived at the back entrance of the Newsboys' Lodging House, Jack was almost an entire block head of me. He hadn't looked over his shoulder to see where I was—since I at least knew how to find Duane Street, I might've been insulted to see him checking up on me—and out small argument had kept us from making small talk on the way back. That, or he was just tired of hearing my voice.

Either way, I guess he was surprised to stop at the back entrance and notice that I wasn't coming up right behind him. He waited for me, though, tapping his foot impatiently against the dirt. I didn't know why he decided to be in such a rush now—it wasn't like we were going to find the Sparrow or the Pigeon hiding out in a lodging house or something.

Jack went inside first, me hesitantly dragging my feet as I followed him. I'd hoped to get in unnoticed, maybe leave my nickel lodging fare on Kloppman's desk without him having to ask any questions, or Jack having to tell any lies.

Of course, considering my luck, I should have known we wouldn't get away with it.

"Isn't it a little early for you to be coming in, Cowboy? And David! I didn't expect to see you again so soon. Wasn't that just this morning?" Kloppman removed his glasses as he spoke, giving them a quick polish before putting them back on. "Now whatever happened to that young lady that was with you? Lost her along the way?"

Kloppman's gentle ribbing bothered me in away it shouldn't have. To have him talk to me so casually, so grandfatherly… it just reinforced how much I should have gone home instead of coming back to the lodging house. I didn't belong there—but I was going to stay anyway.

It was a struggle bringing a well-meaning smile to my exhausted face. "She stays over at Bottle Alley," I explained.

"Cookie's Home? Good for her." He nodded back over at Jack, his wrinkled, old hand already reaching for the ledger book. "So, Cowboy, back in for the night?"

Jack produced a dime as if by magic. "Yeah, Kloppy. And put down Dave's name, too. He's gonna spend the night with us," he said, flipping the dime up at the superintendent. It landed squarely in the center of the ledger's open page.

"Is he now? Do your folks know?"

"Uh—"

"'Cause I had that little brother of yours in here already, David. He was looking for you, seemed to think he would find you here."

Les… Les was looking for me at the lodging house. How in the world did he know?

I was beginning to think my plans were not as brilliant as I thought. I must be pretty predictable if my ten year old brother could figure out my next move…

All I have to say is thank goodness for Jack. A born liar if anything else, he cut in so smoothly that I don't think Kloppman had the chance to notice the way that my smile dripped, my stomach dropped and a fresh wave of guilt washed over me. It was no wonder Les was looking for me. Tomorrow was Monday; tomorrow was lessons. I was supposed to be home, I was supposed to be with my family.

But I couldn't. Not yet.

Not until I found Sarah.

"That's right, Kloppy," Jack was saying, a flawlessly charming smile in place. "Dave made sure to tell them that he was goin' out early with me and a coupla of the other fellas. Wasn't worth him goin' all the way back to his place, so I offered him up a bunk. Didn't think you'd mind, seein' as how Dave's a good guy."

If I hadn't been so rattled by Kloppman telling us that Les had been by, I might've noticed how close Jack's persuasion tactics were to Alfie's over in Midtown. Like the way Alfie handled that big man, Mac, Jack was talking Kloppman into looking past the House rules in favor of letting me stay.

And, like Alfie, Jack's attempts seemed to work.

"Nah, I don't mind. Maybe young David will be a help to me come lights out. He's such a good, honest boy. Right, Jack?" Kloppman asked, his blue eyes twinkling behind his thick glasses with something like amusement—or, perhaps, knowledge. I had the funny feeling that Kloppman was much more perceptive than he wanted Jack to believe. If he really had no idea that we were, in a way, trying to pull a fast one over him… well, I might just have to do something silly. I don't know, like call Spot short, or something.

"Um, yeah. I'm sure he'll be more than willin' to help you out there," Jack said slowly, a crease in his brow. He knew something was up, too. He shook his head and, before I knew it, his hand was resting lightly on my shoulder. "Come on, Davey. Let's go see about gettin' you a bunk."

"All right," I said, relief finding its way to my voice. Kloppman hadn't bothered to tuck the dime away for the night, or even write our names down in his book. He was too busy watching us, that same knowing grin on his wizened face. I cleared my throat before adding, "Thank you."

"Good Night."

"Night."

And then we made our escape, high-tailing it single file up the stairs. I think Jack was reading my mind because he moved even faster than me. Neither one of us wanted to stay in the lobby with Kloppman anymore than we had to. As good a liar as Jack was, Kloppman, I figured, was even better at spotting the lies. Luckily for us, he just chose when he wanted to point them out.

Jack took the stairs two at a time. My feet were clumsy and I was lucky that I could climb up without falling back down. He beat me into the bunkroom and, by the time I all but hobbled inside, he was already standing next to a bunk. It was one of the first ones—and, thankfully, a bottom one—and I didn't see any suspenders or relics of another owner hanging off the side.

Perfect.

"I can use this one?"

He nodded. "First come, first serve, ya know? 'Sides, this bunk is usually empty on account of no one wanting to sleep under Skittery."

Skittery… maybe it wasn't so perfect after all.

Regardless, it was a bunk and I needed one. Just like last time, I didn't even waste time in taking off my shoes or washing up or anything. I was going to, I really was, but first I just needed another rest. After walking all over the Lower East Side that day, and only getting to sit long enough to eat half of my soup and most of the bread, I was absolutely beat. And, as far as I knew, it would only start up again tomorrow—as long as we came up with some sort of lead for the Pigeon, that was.

I could hear Jack's barely stifled snicker as I tossed myself on the bunk. It smelled a little funny, and it wasn't as comfortable as my bed at home had been last night, but it was such a relief to be off my feet again. He didn't disagree, either; from my place, lying on my back, I could see him getting ready to climb up into his own bunk.

Once again, though, my luck didn't fail me.

It had only been about an hour since we returned and I was just about to get up and actually wash my face free of a day's worth of journeying through the slums and Grampa's quarters when we heard frantic steps racketing up the stairs. It wasn't the first—many of the other boys had already turned in—but something about this sound made me freeze.

It was Tumbler, one of the youngest newsboys in the house. At least the frantic pace was explained.

He stopped in the doorway, lifting his head up as he searched the bunks. After wiping his nose and pulling up his trousers, he scurried into the bunkroom and ran right over to Jack's bunk. He was one of the first boys who actually ran by me, without a single curious glance in my direction.

"Jack!"

He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling; he barely reacted to the younger boy's cry. Even I knew that Tumbler's being so excited wasn't anything new. "Yeah, Tumbler?"

"I got a message for you."

That got Jack to sit up, at least. "What is it?"

Tumbler sniffed and wiped his nose again. I tried not to cringe. "It comes from Spot Conlon. Him and Racetrack are outside, out back. He's lookin' for ya, wants ya to meet him."

"Just me?"

"He said something 'bout bringin' your Mouth with ya."

I couldn't help it. I let out a groan. I'd almost forgotten all about Spot and Race and whatever business they'd gone off to do today.

"Thanks, Tumbler," Jack said, already swinging his feet over the side of his bunk. He hadn't stopped to take his shoes off yet, either.

His message delivered, Tumbler wiped his nose one last time for good measure, pulled his hat down on his head and ran right back out of the bunkroom.

"Dave?"

I guess I didn't really have a choice. "I'm coming."

My feet were not very happy with me. It was like a tease, getting to lie down for awhile before having to put my weight back on them again. I hadn't thought I would have to get up, with the exception of getting up and cleaning up before actually falling asleep, but there was no way I could stay up here while Jack went downstairs to talk to Spot. It had to be something important if Spot was calling us downstairs instead of talking in the semi-full bunkroom.

And, besides, Jack would probably grab me by the arm and drag me downstairs if I didn't willingly follow him back down. He was as sympathetic as Teller, I swear.

If Kloppman wondered why the two of us were coming down again and leaving by the back entrance so soon after we arrived, he didn't say anything. He seemed to busy himself with the book in front of him as we passed but I was pretty certain I saw him flash a grin at Jack before ducking his head down.

None of the other newsies were lingering in the back hallway, something I considered a break for us. I'd already heard Jack have a conversation with Dutchy upstairs, and a joke or two with Pie Eater when he came back to the lodging house. I didn't even want to think about how long we'd be stuck if Crutchy or even Mush saw Jack and stopped to talk. And, now that I was up, I was pretty curious to know what Spot had found out today.

We found him out back, standing by the lamppost out by the road. The sun had set for the night, letting a calm darkness fall over New York; the flickering light from the lamp drew our attention to Spot and it took me a moment to realize that Race was sitting along the dirt road, his back to the entrance.

Jack left the doorway first, walking right over to Spot. I lingered behind him, standing right next to Race. Sensing my presence, he looked up and over at me and nodded his greeting. I nodded back. For reasons I couldn't quite explain, I didn't want to be the one to speak first.

But Jack didn't seem to mind breaking the silence.

"Spot, Race… I wasn't expectin' you two to make it back tonight," he said, accepting the lit cigarette Spot held out to him. I'd never seen Spot smoke before—and it just dawned on me that I hadn't seen Jack with a cigarette in his hand all day—but I guess it made sense. If I was prone to such a filthy habit, I'd probably be puffing away myself.

There was a stub of a cigar clamped tightly between Race's crooked teeth, but that was nothing new. I think I would've been more surprised if there wasn't a cigar lodged there. He was scowling now, lips curved viciously around the cigar, and he didn't say anything back to Jack. His face said it all: he obviously wasn't happy about having had to go with Spot.

And Spot, I noticed, he looked as beat as the rest of us. His hat wasn't slung as low as he was wearing it this morning and I could see that the dark circles under his eyes rivaled Jack's. Frowning, his shoulders were slumped and he didn't look half as sturdy as he normally did.

My stomach tightened. Before the two of them said anything, I knew that something wasn't right. Something was wrong.

We were in even more trouble than we were in before.

* * *

Author's Note: _I can't believe that this story is almost over. There's only two more chapters left to this part -- and what chapters they are! All the set up and action for the third (and final) part of this series have to be fit in the next two chapters, as well as furthering the character development of at least three (probably four) of the main characters. But it should be fun, heh. In fact, I can't wait to set up the next scene :)_

_-- stress, 03.08.09_


	14. In Which Brooklyn is in Trouble

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

--

It took Spot a couple of seconds before he answered Jack. When he finally did, there was a hint of steel edging his short words. He was gritting his teeth, spitting the words out. His restless fingers absently twitched as he watched Jack take a long, hard drag off of the cigarette.

"Where else were we supposed to go, Jacky?"

Jack ashed the cigarette, matching the sharp words with a narrowed stare of his own. "This is still 'bout everything ya told me yesterday, huh, Spot?"

He nodded darkly. "Yeah."

"And you're done with Brooklyn already?" Jack looked vaguely surprised, but he covered it well by letting a small wisp of smoke escape out from between his lips.

"What, did ya expect us to stay there now?"

"It might've been a good idea. We can't say for sure where the Sparrow stuck Sarah and he might make a move for Brooklyn."

"You don't know the half of it," muttered Race.

For just a second I was almost positive that I was the only one who heard him—and even I was questioning myself. I glanced down at him, but he was suddenly all too interested in the ends of his cigar. The picture of innocence if only I didn't know enough about Racetrack Higgins to be suspicious of him even _pretending_ to be innocent.

Spot must have heard him, too. From underneath the lamppost, I could see him scowling. My heart started to pick up its beat. I'd seen Spot scowl plenty of times before but there was something different about how he stood there agitated, his expression menacing. He looked absolutely dangerous and, not for the first time, I thanked my lucky stars that we were on the same side.

"So, what's this about, Spot? What's with the secrecy? Sendin' a kid in, havin' Dave and me meet ya out back… what's goin' on?" Jack took another puff off the half-smoked cigarette, exhaling almost immediately. "Tell me it ain't what I think it is."

"Wish I could."

"It ain't—"

Clearing my throat, I took one tentative step past Race before I had the chance to think about what I was doing. I knew I was interrupting them but I had to. If I stayed quiet, there was a good chance I would never understand what they were talking about. Race had to know what was really going on, seeing as how he went with Spot to follow up on his lead, but I was totally left out of it.

Again.

They where—whether they meant to or not—excluding me once again. But this time I wasn't going to let them get away with it. After all, it was Spot whose call had dragged me and Jack from our bunks. Bring Jack's mouth, he'd said… well, the least he could do was explain what he wanted us for now that we'd come.

"Excuse me," I said, stopping Jack mid-sentence. Both of them looked up, partly annoyed and mostly bewildered to find me joining them by the lamppost. I would've wagered that they just might've forgotten I was even there.

"Excuse me," I tried again, now that I had their attention, "but I'd just like to point out the fact that not all of us were together yesterday and might not know what you're talking about." From behind me I heard Racetrack let out a small noise that I took to be a disagreement so I quickly added, "Okay, so I'm the one who doesn't know. Are you going to tell me?" I asked, sounding much bolder than I felt, having Spot Conlon look up at me with fury in his eyes. "Or should I just stand here like… like a dumb ass?"

Jack let out a whistle under his breath. It suddenly occurred to me that I was beginning to sound just like him; it was a bit odd for me, too. And the curse left a sour taste in my mouth, besides.

"I swear, I don't know what I'd do if Mouth didn't use his damn mouth." The fire dimmed and, even though it was too dark to really tell, Spot's lips were curved in a tiny smirk. "Anything else ya gotta say?"

I pointedly kept my mouth closed. I was waiting.

"Yeah." He turned back to Jack. "Ya didn't tell him?"

"Didn't get a chance." He'd finished his cigarette, throwing it to the dirt and stubbing it out with the tip of his shoe. When he was done, he looked up just in time to Spot making a disbelieving face. "Hey, don't look at me like that. It was up to us to go down to Bottle Alley, talk to Meggie and try to find Sarah. Brooklyn was all you two."

"This is about Brooklyn?" I asked in disbelief. If his lead was all the way in Brooklyn, then why did he come back here with us yesterday? "You went all the way back there today after coming to Manhattan?"

"Can't keep your trap shut for more than a minute, can ya?"

I ignored that. "I don't understand. You said you had a lead! How was walking back to Brooklyn supposed to help Sarah? She's not with you now, Spot, she's with the Sparrow. And I'm pretty sure somebody would've known by now if they were in Brooklyn."

"I wouldn't place your bets against any odds on that," offered Race.

Whirling on him, I snapped, "Why not?"

Race took the soggy ends of his cigar out of his mouth, carefully putting the fiery edge out against the smothering dirt. There was an inch left to the smelly cigar and, almost tenderly, Race stowed it inside the pocket of his garish vest. "'Cause the Sparrow's all over Brooklyn."

"So it's true?"

"What's true?" I demanded, whipping my head from Race over to Jack. "The Sparrow… and Brooklyn? What? When?"

Spot shook his head, waving his hand flippantly at Jack. I don't think he'd forgiven Jack for not filling me in—I just hoped he decided to tell me himself. "If ya do me a favor and just… just shut your mouth, Mouth, maybe I can tell ya what's what." Turning to look up at Jack, he said. "And, yeah, it's true. I'd been hopin' like hell but… nope."

Then, glancing back over at me, he began to explain.

"Ya gotta understand that Brooklyn is a prime territory. I got it in my grip alright but every Tom, Dick and Harry wants to get their mitts on it. Ever since I took it over, there ain't been anyone damn stupid enough to try and go up against me. 'Til now, that is. There's this mook, thinks he's a big shot. Scotch O'Reilly. He was one of my newsies who opened his mouth a little too often for my likin', but now he thinks he's gonna try his hand at pushin' me off the docks."

Impatiently, I held my hand out to him, gesturing for him to get to the point. "And what does that have to do with Sarah?"

"I'm gettin' there, ain't I?" he growled back, spitting on the dirt floor. His hands were still jittery and anxious. He was plucking at one of his suspenders in thinly veiled frustration; I couldn't tell who—or what—he was directing his frustration at. "Scotch is a moron, a real buffoon, and I couldn't figure how he was even gettin' anybody to back him up. A muscle head if anything, no brains at all. I never considered the Sparrow might've been involved, 'specially since we used to be on good terms. And then Sarah…"

He paused, cracking his knuckles if only to give his hands something to do before continuing.

"I went to Brooklyn, Dave, to see why the Sparrow really went after your sister. I knew he was gunnin' for her but I'd heard some things. I wanted to hear more… and I did. Ya see, the Sparrow's been helpin' Scotch get his filthy mitts on my territory. They went after my girl, figurin' it'd leave me weak and I'd give up Brooklyn. But then he got greedy… they both got greedy. The Sparrow's takin' Sarah for himself, Scotch is makin' his move on Brooklyn, and I'm stuck here, explain' myself to the likes of you."

I didn't even have it in me to be offended by his snide comment or the way he looked down his nose at me even though I was taller; the fear I knew earlier vanished. Instead, I felt my hands clench tightly in a sudden surge of anger. Spot had said a lot but it all meant one thing to me:

"So this… Sarah being gone, my mother having to worry… it's all your fault? Your pride and your claim to a stake of land?"

Before Spot could answer me, Jack clamped his teeth down and said, "It's your fault, Spot?"

Spot turned on him, his hand out, his pointer finger jabbing the air viciously. "Don't go pinnin' the blame on me, Jacky Boy. Sarah's bein' took is 'cause of you as much as it is 'cause of me."

Jack wasn't intimidated in the least. He had a good few inches on Spot and he met the other boy's open fury with a cold glare. "But I thought—"

"Never mind what you thought. That Sparrow bastard stole Sarah to get at me but now he ain't plannin' on givin' her back. And I tell ya this: I ain't lettin' her go or Brooklyn without a fight."

The air was tense, the night still, and then Jack let out a long breath, an exhausted exhale. I felt my own anger ebb away with the sound. I don't know what I expected Spot to do, especially now that I knew he had more to worry about than just Sarah's disappearance, but it was definitely a relief to hear that he wasn't just giving in. He was a fighter, the first one to take a swing—if he said he wasn't going to let them win, I believed him.

In fact, I felt the smallest, tiniest twinge of sympathy for this Scotch fellow and the Sparrow. They might've thought getting at Spot through Sarah was a good plan but I don't think they _really_ thought it through. Spot was the furthest thing from weak; if anything, I was finally beginning to see the Spot I first met back during the newsie strike last year.

"Okay," Jack announced, nodding his head slowly. "Alright. I'm with ya, Spot."

"Me, too," I added hurriedly.

We all turned as one to look at Race—who had stood up during our conversation and was trying to sneakily make his way inside his lodging house without anyone noticing.

"Race…"

A sigh and then, "Do I get a choice, Cowboy?"

"No," Spot cut in firmly.

"In that case, count me in."

There was no mistaking the fact that continuing to look for the Sparrow and Sarah—not to mention trying to stop a supposed uprising in Brooklyn—was the last thing that Race wanted to do but Spot was right: he didn't really have a choice in the matter. Like the rest of us, including Teller, he was inexplicably involved now and there was no turning back.

There was no turning back…

The idea of everything I had to look forward to was so overwhelming that I couldn't help myself. Despite the waning tension and the dread I felt at what was to come, I let out a large yawn that stretched my entire mouth open. For a few minutes I'd managed to forget how much I craved my rest; without the fierce anger keeping me on my toes, I just wanted to go lay down.

"Tired, Dave?" Racetrack asked suddenly, a curious inflection in his voice. I was a little taken aback that he noticed my yawn, and a little suspicious that he seemed pleased.

But, thinking back on today, there was no way around it. If it wasn't for Tumbler's arrival and being told that Spot was outside, I would have already been asleep. I _should _be asleep.

"A little," I admitted.

"Come on. Let's go in before some of the younger kids try to take all the bunks."

Now, I know that Race could be a good guy when he wanted to. I'd never forgive myself for leaving Les alone with him in the past, but he does his best. Still, there was a… greasy quality to him, and I had to wonder what his ulterior motive was for being so nice to me. There was no if—he had to have one.

Because he seemed so set on us going inside, I was a little wary. Thinking it might be a good thing it Jack went in with us, I said, "Jack, are you coming in?"

He shook his head. "Later. I'm gonna fill Spot in on everything we done today."

"Oh. Alright. Good night then."

I gave a little shrug. Maybe it was better this way. I guess I was a bit curious to find out why Race was acting so strange. Though, if he felt anything like I did, he was probably just tired.

Offering a quick wave at both Spot and Jack, I made to follow Race inside the lodging house. I tried to be as sneaky as him, but it didn't work for me either. I got called out by Spot before I took my second step.

"Mouth?"

I'd been expecting this. Now that my anger had worn off, I realized just how stupid I was to have yelled as Spot. Bracing myself, I said, "Yes?"

"All that ya said back there?" I nodded a touch fearfully. Spot really could be quite intimidating. "I'm gonna let it slide. But this one time only, ya understand? 'Cause I miss her, too, and I want her back more than you do. But if ya call me out like that again… even you won't be able to use that mouth of yours to talk your way outta it."

I didn't know what to say. It made sense for him to let go—we were working together, after all—but Spot Conlon never struck me as a sensible boy. He was intelligent, very street smart, and he was quick, too, and I had to admit that I was impressed… even if I did take his warning to heart.

In the end I just waved again. "I guess I'll see you later."

But the two of them were so consumed with their new conversation to answer me. It was obvious that neither of them needed my company and Race had already disappeared inside. There was nothing else I could do. I followed him in. The last thing I heard before I left them both outside was two words—the Pigeon—and I was glad that he was telling Spot. I sure didn't want to.

The lights were dim in the hallway, the flickering candles sending long shadows that fell at my feet. I didn't see Racetrack inside and I began to second guess myself. Maybe he _was_ just as tired as I was.

And then, as if appearing out of nowhere, he was there. I almost ran right into him and, when I stopped just in time, I yelped in surprise.

"Hush, Dave. I got somethin' I wanna tell ya but I gotta keep my voice down."

"Yes?" I said, taking a step back. Race was so close, I could smell stale smoke on him. It was nowhere near as pleasant as Teller's soapy smell. "What is it?"

"Listen, how well do ya know that Teller girl?"

The question was like a slap in the face. I didn't like the way this was going—why did Race want to know that? Worse, why didn't he want anyone to overhear him asking? "Not really well. I'd only just met her two days ago. Why?"

"I went with Spot to Brooklyn, right? Dug a little, talked to some pals of his and a coupla guys I know… tryin' to see how far Scotch has gone. Most of Brooklyn is still loyal to Spot but there's a few who like what Scotch's got to say."

"I know, Race. Jack and Spot were just talking about all that. That's why the Sparrow went after Sarah in the first place."

"Yeah, but there's something else… something I didn't tell Spot. Ya see, this one guy I know… he sells over here some time, kid called Southie? He's in Brooklyn now, and he swears he spotted one of the Sparrow's birds talkin' it up with Scotch outside some two-bit dive not far from the docks."

My stomach tightened. I almost didn't want to hear any more. Slowly—too slowly—I was beginning to understand what he was trying to tell me.

But that didn't stop him. "Tall girl, kinda slim… not too sickly, if ya know what I mean. Looked a little anxious, kept glancin' over her shoulder. Had a pretty face, Southie said, powder and everything. And her hair, she had dark hair done up in braids…" Race was still explaining in that quick, quiet voice. Between his thick accent and the speed of the mumbled words I could barely understand him—but I got the gist of it.

There was only one person I knew who fit that description.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Race checked behind him to make sure that either Spot or Jack hadn't snuck up on us. No one was there, the back hall was still empty, and he turned around. He shrugged. "'Cause I like the girl, too."

He left it at that. With one last check over his shoulder, Race patted the edge of my sleeve in a half-hearted gesture before shuffling away. His head was hunched and he looked even shorter than he was; there was no lingering gambler's grin, either. I don't know what unnerved me more: what he said or how he'd said it.

I couldn't understand—I don't think I wanted to. In a bit of a daze, I stood there, running Race's words through my head. What did it all mean?

Then I yawned again and, despite my heavy head, my eyes started to droop. It was too late, I decided, to think about this tonight. I would see Teller the next morning and I could always ask her about Racetrack's worries. Who knows? Maybe there was another braided girl that eats in cheap restaurants in Brooklyn and happens to have a tie to the Sparrow.

It could happen…

Still, with everything Spot told us about Brooklyn, and then Race's admission about Teller, I didn't know how I was going to fall asleep. Add that to the ever gnawing worry that Sarah was getting deeper into trouble with every minute the Sparrow had her—not to mention the fact that I still felt like a total disgrace for continuing to lie to my family—and I was afraid that I would never sleep again.

However, the minute my head hit the thin, slightly damp pillow on the edge of my borrowed bunk, my eyes closed. I'm pretty sure I passed out.

But at least I made sure I took my shoes off first.

* * *

Author's Note: _And then there was one... One more chapter, that is, until _The Lark_ is finished. I actually really enjoyed this chapter because it sets the scene for what's to come while, at the same time, showing the overaching story that has been hidden up until this point. And that's not all -- there _is _still one more chapter... and lots can happen then ;)_

_-- stress, 03.13.09_


	15. In Which David Goes it Alone

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

**The Lark**

_The Sparrow has Sarah, that much is certain.  
Now, with Jack and Spot's help, it's up to David and his new friend Teller to find the Sparrow and save Sarah in time.  
If, of course, he can…_

I slept through the night, too. In fact, I probably would have slept through the entire day if it wasn't for a rough shake and a very close shave where I woke up to find Jack's nose only a few inches away from mine.

"You up, Davey?"

I tried to tell him that I was now, that it was impossible to sleep with Jack hovering over me like that, but all that came out were muffled grunts. My tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Jack took the noises to mean that I was. Slapping me briskly in the face, he said, "Good. Now get out of bed. It's time to go."

It took me a second to realize that he was whispering. I wanted to ask him why he was being so quiet—and just how early it was—but he was gone, back over at his bunk before I'd even gotten my mouth to open. It had to be early, though; the room was still dark, a faint haze coming in through the window as if the sun was only beginning to dawn. Closing my eyes for a moment, I could hear a cacophony of slight snores and stifled wheezes—none of the other boys were up yet, either.

I wonder what that was about…

Rubbing my eyes, I sat up and stretched. I remembered just in time that I was on the bottom bunk; ducking my head into my chest, I made sure I didn't bump it on the underside of Skittery's bunk. I yawned again, my mouth wide and open as I groaned. It was a good night's sleep, thank goodness, and some of my achiness had worn off. It was a duller pain, not as pressing as it had been yesterday.

Once I felt like I was as awake I was going to get on such short notice, I leaned over and reached for my shoes. I'd stowed them underneath my bunk last night, too tired to worry about any of the other boys walking off with them; luckily they were still there. I was a bit hesitant to pull them back on but I could make out Jack's impatient silhouette in the dark bunkroom. He was waiting for me, gesturing at me to hurry up with the hand of his that wasn't tightening his rope belt.

Despite any wishful thinking, the shoes were still tight and the intense pressure woke me up even more. I did up the laces as loose as I could manage. I didn't want any more blisters and, based on Jack's early rising, I was prepared to bet that a great deal of walking was part of our plan for the day.

I'd fallen asleep in my clothes, not even bothering to strip down to my undershirt last night. It was a lazy thing to do, but I was glad now. All I had needed to do to get ready was put my shoes and head on over to the water pump to wash up before leaving.

There was one small snag there. Shuffling my feet, prudently trying to stay quiet as I crossed the room towards the wash basins, I was just about to pass Jack when I felt his rough, callused hand on my elbow.

"Where ya goin'?"

He was still whispering, a short confused hiss under his breath. Following his example, I whispered back, "I want to clean my face and my hands before we go anywhere."

Jack shook his head. "No time. We have to get leavin' already." Even in the darkness he must have seen my horrified expression because he quickly added, "You can wash up later, Dave. But we have to hurry right now. If we don't get a move on, we might not get to her in time."

"Her? Her who?"

Lifting his dirty, ink-stained finger to his lip, he hushed me. Then, crooking his finger before pointing at the open entrance that led towards the stairs, he jerked his head, let go of my arm and quickly slipped out of the bunkroom. He only stopped to grab that red bandana of his that was perched carefully on the edge of his bunk.

The quick and stealthy way he moved took me by surprise and I stood there for another minute or so until I realized that I was supposed to follow after him. My head was muddled, still clouded with the last vestiges of my well-needed sleep, and I felt like a fool as I all too slowly went down the steps.

I met him in the lobby. The desk was empty, no superintendent in sight, but I thought I might've heard strange sounds coming from behind a closed doorway at the opposite end of the room. Assuming that was where Kloppman slept, I was able to get a better idea of what time it was. Obviously it was too early for the newsies to go out and sell the morning edition of the_ World_, but not by much. Kloppman was probably getting ready to go up and wake up the boys. If Jack was trying to get out of the lodging house before the others, he'd gotten me up just in time.

My curiosity written all over my face, I lifted my head and looked over at Jack. He was leaning against Kloppman's desk, nimble fingers just finishing with tying his bandana in place around his neck. I opened my mouth to ask him my question again but, like before, he shook his head and didn't give me a chance to say a word. Instead, he jerked his head towards the front entrance and led the way. Realizing that I didn't really have a choice myself, I followed him out.

As soon as we were outside—it was a little brighter out, but a hint of night still lingered—I tapped him on the shoulder. His step was a lot lighter, and he was moving a lot faster than he had yesterday. So fast, in fact, that I just reached the edge of his dusty vest with the tip of my finger.

"What is this about, Jack? Where are we going?"

"Back to Bottle Alley. We got to get to her before the Home closes up."

"Her?" My stomach clenched in that familiar unsettling feeling. I was able to forget all about Race's confession as I slept but now—now that Jack had reminded me—it all came rushing back. "You're not talking about Teller, are you?"

"I sure as hell ain't lookin' for Rosamund, Dave."

I ignored that. I didn't think that anyone in their right mind would willingly look for Rosamund. Shaking my head at the memory of the pretty yet spiteful young lady, I focused on something Jack said that I didn't understand. "What do you mean, before the Home closes up?"

Though his back was to me as he answered my question, I saw that he waved his hands a bit as he spoke. "Most of the girls who lodge in the Bottle Alley Home work for the factories… sewin', and the like. The factories have a strict shift, ten hours a day, and they open up before the Distribution Centers. On account of that, Mrs. Cook makes sure to close the doors to the Home early so the girls make sure they get to work when they're supposed to."

"Okay, so we're going to meet up with Teller instead of her finding us? Why didn't we just wait for her here?" I asked, trying to keep the whine out of my voice. I wouldn't have said no to another couple of minutes of sleep. "After she left Bottle Alley, wouldn't she be coming right here?"

Jack stopped so suddenly that, if there hadn't already been a few feet between us, I might've ran right into his back. He spun around, his lips pursed in a sour expression. "I don't know. What do you think?"

"I… I don't know. She said that she was going back to Bottle Alley last night, but she was going to see us today. She'll probably wake up and head on over to Duane Street first thing this morning."

"Really?" Jack asked, almost mockingly. He was still frowning but there was an arch to his eyebrow that made him seem more than just upset. "She wouldn't run off to Brooklyn first? Check in with Scotch maybe?"

I wish I was a better liar. The fact that I knew exactly what he was getting at was advertised all over my face before I could even think of pretending to be ignorant. Exhaling both in relief—because I didn't have to worry about shouldering this alone—and apprehension—what did Jack think about Race's news?—I said, "Racetrack told you already?"

Jack shook his head. "Spot had an idea. He's got his own birdies, ones who work apart from the Sparrow. One of 'em found him last night and filled him in on what Scotch was up to. Me and him went and got Race up and he decided to come clean on what Southie told him." He paused and huffed. "But Spot wasn't happy, Davey, and I feel for Race. He got about twenty minutes of shut-eye before Spot told him to get his stuff together. He was headin' back and he made Race go with him."

"So Spot and Race went back to Brooklyn?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I felt for Race, too—the trip between Brooklyn and Manhattan wasn't so bad but it took a couple of hours at least.

"Yeah. He's expectin' the Sparrow to meet up with Scotch any day now, and he's sure he'll be bold enough to bring Sarah along. And he doesn't like to be away for too long, 'specially with Scotch makin' his move."

I nodded my understanding. Like I told him last night angrily, it all came down to Spot and his affection for a bit of land. At least Sarah was also of some importance to him. I just hoped he put my sister before his territory.

"So what are we doing? Besides looking for Teller?" I asked. I agreed with him that Teller was someone we should talk to. Not only did she have some questions to answer about her involvement with Scotch's attempted take-over of Brooklyn, but she knew more about the Sparrow than the rest of us. I needed her here.

He lost that sour face, sighing as he looked over his shoulder. He obviously wanted to start walking again but, before he did, he finished explaining to me exactly where we were going—and what were going to do. "Me and Spot agreed that teamin' up with Teller, keepin' her in our sight, that was the most important thing. Once we have her, our goal is to do whatever we can to find the Pigeon. I thought we might want to ask Meggie while we were at Bottle Alley… as long as we get there in time."

It was, I noticed, getting lighter. We'd only stopped to talk for a few minutes but, now that I understood the reasons behind Jack's abrupt wakening this morning, I didn't want to waste any more time. I would never have questioned Teller meeting up with us—considering she'd been where she said she would be every time we made plans to meet—but there was something about the way that Jack had cocked his eyebrow knowingly at me.

Nodding again, I started to walk, taking the lead. "Come on, Jack. Let's go."

* * *

Bottle Alley bright and early on Monday morning was just as busy, crowded and stench-filled as it was on Sunday afternoon, if not even more so. Walking side by side with Jack, it was difficult to keep to a straight path without running into someone else, or trying to sidestep a pile of something very questionable. There where people everywhere, and just as many animals roaming the main street.

I didn't even want to see what the slums were like even deeper down the alleyway.

It didn't look any different than it had yesterday and, as I swallowed back another gag, it didn't smell any pleasanter. Since it was actually a little stuffier today, I felt like it was suffocating me. I couldn't wait until we had Teller with us and we could go… well, anywhere else.

We didn't stop across the street today. Jack crossed the corner, making straight for the building on the corner, and I haphazardly followed behind him. A woman carrying a load of wash with a loaf of stale bread on top moved between us and I almost lost him. By the time I spotted him in the crowd, he'd already approached the Girls' Home. The faded white sign with the pretty pink script hung there, advertising it as the Bottle Alley Home for Girls. Jack was standing beneath it, facing a wooden door; his hand was poised to knock.

My pants, courtesy of my dwindling appetite, hung low and I had to pick them up by the waist as I ran towards the stoop.

Jack shook his head at my awkward gait but I didn't care. He was lucky that I was even moving so quickly—I could feel my blasted blisters beginning to wake up from their earlier rest and they were furious.

"Here, Dave," he said, barely hiding a smirk as he knocked on the door. "When the door opens just let me do the talking."

I nodded my agreement just in time for someone to come to the door, answering Jack's knock.

It was another girl, one different from either Teller, Meggie or Rosamund. She was about my age, maybe a little closer to Jack's, though the cross expression she wore made her look older—and a lot more formidable. Pretty enough, with fair skin, a dotting of freckles, and wide green eyes that looked like they would be at home on a cat's face, she cast a fearsome gaze over us without saying a single word. A kerchief covering a mane of wild brown curls, I saw that the hand she held out was rough and red, not ink-stained; she was one of the factory girls.

She got a good look at us both, identified us correctly as newsboys not worth her time and quickly made to shut the door. "No boys allowed," she snapped.

Jack's reflexes were much quicker than mine. He reacted immediately, holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture; his right foot, however, was shoved in the doorjamb, making sure the door couldn't quite close. "I know that…"

He sounded friendly enough—almost as if he'd spoken to her before—but for all his charm, she wasn't falling for it. The girl scowled, pointblank refusing to let him look past her, but she did open the door back up again. She kept one hand on the seam of her skirt; the other was kept possessively on the edge of the door. "Is there something I can do for you, Cowboy?"

Figuring she wouldn't try to slam the door again—or maybe just taking heart that she knew who he was—Jack took his foot back. He'd noticed how icy her demeanor was, though, and he let one of his handsome smirks light up his face. He looked pleased that she already knew his name. Me, I was wondering what she'd heard about him to make her look down on him like that. "Yeah," he said, his voice nearly as slick as Racetrack's all of a sudden. "We're lookin' for a girl named Teller. Do ya think you could get her for us?"

She seemed to think about it for a second before saying, "Teller, huh?" She held out the hand that had been on her hip, marking the air at a spot that was about Teller's height. "Girl this high, likes to wear her hair in a braid? Smart mouth, knows a bit too much?"

Jack touched his nose. "Got it in one."

The girl shook her head. "She ain't here."

"What?" He stumbled, and I could feel my heart start beating quickly again. She couldn't be serious, could she? Teller _had _to be here. "Are ya sure? Did she leave already?"

"It's just what I said," she snapped again, visibly bothered that Jack was questioning her. "I've seen her around, and she's stayed a coupla nights, but she hasn't been here in awhile."

I shared a look with Jack and I got the feeling he was wondering the same thing as me. How did we know that we could trust this girl? She didn't seem very accommodating, and she certainly didn't seem charmed by Jack's smile… for all we knew, she could be lying just for the sake of keeping the truth from us.

"Listen. I'm sure ya understand, but Teller… she's a pal o' mine… just a pal… and I really need to talk to her so—"

"Yeah, and that's nice and all, but I can't help ya. I'll tell ya what: if I see her, I'll let her know ya came lookin' for her. How's that?"

It was easy to see that that was all we were going to get from the girl. Feeling grateful enough for that, I thought it might be worth a shot if I asked her about Meggie. After all, Meggie knew quite a lot about the Sparrow—maybe she had some idea where we could find the Sparrow now that Teller's help was no longer an option.

"Thank you," I said, trying to sound more gentlemanly so that she didn't think I acted like Jack, too, "but do you think we could talk to Meggie instead? She might be able to help us."

Speaking calmly like that seemed to work. While she still glanced suspiciously over at Jack—who was wearing a mixture of indignation and professed innocence on his face—she managed to spare a small smile in my direction. "I can see if she's still in. Hold on."

She made sure to close the door behind her. This time, Jack didn't stop her.

The girl wasn't gone too long, but it was long enough for me to start getting worried that she wasn't going to come back. Maybe she didn't know Meggie, or maybe she didn't want to help us. Jack was acting antsy, too; he kept rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, looking over his shoulder and absently brushing a greasy strand of sandy-colored hair out of his face.

He straightened up, fixing the front of his vest when we heard the click of the door being opened a second time. It was the same girl, and she didn't look any happier than she had been when she left. "I'm sorry to tell ya," she said, actually sounding a bit apologetic, "but Meggie's not here, either."

That's not what I was expecting to hear and, before I could keep the words back, I told her, "Now, wait one minute. I saw Meggie yesterday and she was here!"

The smile slid off of her face. I must've offended her with my words and she was as frosty and cold with me now as she was with Jack before. "Yeah, she _was _here, but now she ain't. Like the rest of us, she's got a job to get to and so do I. And I ain't gonna have it for much longer if I stay here and chitchat with you'se all day. So, if that's all ya came in for…"

"Actually," Jack said, a hint of a wolfish grin curving his lips, "I was wonderin'—"

She snorted through her long nose. "Keep wonderin'," she snapped before gripping the edge of the thin door and swinging it closed in one fluid gesture.

We were quiet for a moment, the slamming of the front door echoing in my ears. The sounds of a crowded, busy street surrounded us but I couldn't afford to pay any attention to it. My mind was fastened on one idea: Teller was gone.

Teller was gone, and she'd lied to me. She hadn't gone back to Bottle Alley last night. I didn't even know _where_ she was. And, with a head start that began yesterday, she could be anywhere. Brooklyn, Midtown, Harlem, the Bronx… she always seemed to know where she was going. I didn't even have a clue.

Jack looked dazed and I couldn't tell if it was because he was struggling to come to grips with the fact that Teller had left… or because he couldn't believe that a girl he'd tried to charm hadn't wanted anything to do with him. Knowing Jack, it was probably due to the latter as much as the former.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to say something. He was the one who, I was pretty sure, had been expected this to happen. I guess I was waiting for an 'I told you so', or some gloating, and it made me antsy to keep waiting. As angry and upset by this revelation as I was, I knew it was going to get even worse when Jack let it all out.

Then, just when I was going to give up myself and let my frustration show, Jack grumbled and, so loudly I nearly jumped, he stamped the sole of his right boot against the stoop. It was one simple gesture and, once it was over with, he sighed and very calmly shook his head. But he, like me, remained rooted to the same spot.

I knew we couldn't stay there forever, especially since there were still some girls in the Home preparing to leave, so, after a few minutes, I said, "Jack—"

"She done a runner," he declared, interrupting me.

"She's gone, alright," I agreed.

"I don't know what Spot's gonna say," he mused as he started to pat the pockets of his trouser absently. His fingers, I noticed, had begun to twitch in anger. It was as if he had emerged out of some trance. "Actually, I can just hear him now. 'She was a spy all along, Jacky Boy, didn't I tell ya'… that's what he's gonna say. Shit."

He huffed, but the smallest hint of a satisfied smirk blossomed on his face as he found what he was looking for. Reaching into his pocket, Jack pulled out a small hand-rolled cigarette. It looked like the one Spot had given him last night and I wondered if Spot had replenished Jack's supply. Using his dirty hand, he smoothed out a wrinkle on the rolling paper before placing the ends of the cigarette in his mouth.

As he bowed his head to strike a match and light the cigarette, I nervously scratched my head. My hair was curly, unkempt and overgrown; without even realizing it, I'd left my cap back at the lodging house and I had nothing to cover it up with. I suddenly remembered that I hadn't washed up yet and, strangely, it didn't bother me as much as it normally might have.

What did it matter, anyway?

Teller was gone, and Meggie had already left for the day. With the two of them, there went any hope that we'd talk to someone who could help us find the Pigeon. Thinking about that, I felt defeated, as if everything I'd done so far had been for nothing; I felt like a fool for ever even imagining that Teller might care enough to really help me save my sister.

My shoulders slumped, and I sighed. "What do we do now?"

"You don't got a plan?"

"No, Jack," I said, my voice curiously flat, "I don't have a plan."

Jack shook his head again, a cloud of smoke pushed through his nose. He left his cigarette hanging between his pointer and middle fingers. His brow was furrowed, his eyes narrowed at one of the irregularly-shaped flagstones that cobbled down the alley. It was a face I'd seen him make before—he was thinking.

Then he nodded, placing the cigarette back in his mouth as he jumped off of the stoop. He was already moving fast, his hands pumping at his side as he purposefully walked away. He'd made it halfway back across the street before I'd even noticed he was gone.

Hiking my pants up again, I scurried after him. "Where are we going?"

His answer was something I hadn't anticipated—thought I really should have known.

"Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn?" It was bad enough that Spot felt the need to keep going back and forth across the Brooklyn Bridge, but I didn't want to. Unless there was something more to this and the Sparrow had already brought Sarah to Spot's territory—and I doubted it—then I couldn't understand why we had to go there instead of going back to Duane Street. "Why there?"

"Simple, Davey. We know that something's goin' down in Brooklyn, and we know that's where Spot is… and, trust me, we'll need Spot. And Teller, we know that she's been seen with Scotch. There's a good chance she might've gone back there."

"Oh." I didn't bother arguing. What else could I do? "Alright. To Brooklyn, then."

"Are you sure about that?"

The voice came from right behind us, loud enough for me to hear but quiet and husky at the same time. It wasn't Jack's, I knew, and it wasn't familiar, either. But there was no doubt in my mind that it was directed at us.

I turned around first, followed by Jack. Shading my eyes against the morning sun, I tried to see who it was who could be addressing us with such a question.

And there he was.

He was a boy, no more than twelve years old, with a whine to his voice that made him sound younger. A little taller than Les, his clothes were ill-fitting; he must've only started to grow, and quickly at that. At least an inch of his arm was visible, and a couple of inches of his ankles could be seen between his too-short pants and a thirdhand pair of shoes. With a small derby on his head, pulled down low so that all I could see was a shark-like grin on his young face, he was standing about ten feet away from us.

There was something in his hand and, with a quick toss and perfect aim, he threw it right at Jack's feet. I didn't even need to squint or crane my neck to see that it was a black rock with a white drawing across it.

The Sparrow's sign.

"David. The Sparrow sends his regards."

I didn't know whether to be excited or fierce just then. This was it, this was what I had been waiting for. I'd finally found someone who knew the Sparrow—someone who could tell me where he was.

Still, the rock reminded me of what had happened Friday, when a similar rock had been thrown at me and Rachel. I wondered if this boy was the same person who threw one then. Somehow I doubted it. That throw had been hard, meant to hit us; this boy's toss was soft and true. It was a message, not a warning.

"Where is he? Where's Sarah?" I cried, trying to sound demanding. I think I sounded more like I was whining, I was that excited.

"I've come to take you to her. All you have to do is follow me."

Jack made the first step but the boy shook his head. "No, not you. The invitation is for him only." He pointed at me, obvious relish causing him to smirk up at Jack. "Either David comes with me alone, or the Sparrow takes back his offer of a meeting."

I could already see the anger welling on Jack's face. I recognized that look, too. It was the same expression he used to wear every time one of the Delancey brothers got on his nerves.

Thinking quickly, I took a step forward, placing my body in front of Jack's. This was the first real lead we'd gotten—I couldn't let Jack's temper and fists ruin this for us. I didn't care if it was a trap or if it was a joke. If a boy bearing the sign of the Sparrow was offering to bring me to his boss, I would be a fool not to at least try and go with him.

Besides, he was younger than me, and much smaller. What could he do that even I couldn't fight back against?

"I'll go," I decided.

"Dave, I don't—"

I glanced over my shoulder, my jaw set but my eyes pleading. "I have to, Jack. I have to do this on my own. Just you… you go to Brooklyn. I'll meet you there when I can."

I could tell that letting me leave with this boy while he basically turned tail and ran off to Brooklyn was the last thing he wanted to do. He was a brave boy—for the most part—and it made him sick to know that he was turning his back on what could be a big fight. Not to mention the fact that he would also be giving up his only chance to go after the Sparrow first.

But, going against every grain of sense in his thick head, he nodded. "Okay. We'll be waitin'."

"I'm glad you see things our way," the boy said, waving his hand at me, motioning for me to join him. "It's not far and my boss… and his guest… are certainly awaiting your arrival."

Jack snorted under his breath. I could feel the tension coming off of him in waves, even as I walked past him. But, luckily, he didn't say anything else. I think it was taking all of his strength to keep from lunging forward and knocking down the young boy.

As soon as I got by his side, Jack decided there was nothing else he could. Offering me a short wave, and glaring a warning at the boy, he turned around and started to stalk off. He had quite a hike ahead of him—as did I, I was sure—and I could tell that he couldn't wait until he got over to Brooklyn.

However, he'd only taken a couple of steps before my new companion called out to him:

"Oh, and Cowboy?"

Jack paused, not even turning around. He was stiff, his back tensed, and his hands were clenched into fists at his side.

The boy grinned. "Tell Conlon the Sparrow says hi."

* * *

Part Two.

_Fin._

* * *

Author's Note: _And that's that. Part Two, _The Lark, _is finished. We got to meet a couple of Teller's friends/contacts, learn a little bit more about the Sparrow and the role he has to play, see some more bickering between Teller and Spot, see some more bonding between Teller and David and watch Jack slowly come back to form. We learned about a supposed uprising in Brooklyn and just why -- maybe -- Sarah is so important a piece. Can't wait to see what the forthcoming (and final) Part Three, _The Pigeon_, will add... coming soon ;)_

_I just want to take the time and thank everybody who read or read/reviewed this story. It's always so nice to get some feedback and I appreciate every word you guys offer me in return. It would be totally awesome if you could just take a moment and let me know what you think know that the whole Part Two is complete -- and keep a look out for Part Three!_

_-- stress, 03.15.09_


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